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POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, 



COLLECTED AND ARRANGED 



BY THE AUTHOR. 



ILLUSTRATED BY ONE HUNDRED ENGRAVINGS 

FROM DRAWINGS BY 

BIRKET FOSTER, HARRY FENN, ALFRED FREDERICKS, AND OTHERS. 



tLtV> ul 'Of. 

Jfa. 



NEW YORK: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

549 & 551 BROADWAY. 






Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by W. C. BRYANT, in the Clerk's Office 
of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. 

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by W. C. BRYANT, in the Office of the 
Librarian of Congress at Washington. 

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, by W. C. BRYANT, in the Office of the 
Librarian of Congress at Washington. 

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by D. APPLETON & CO., in the Office 
of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 



TO THE READER. 



This edition contains several of the author's poems which have 
not appeared in any previous collection. These, as well as the 
others in the volume, have been made to follow each other in the 
order in which they were written, the author deeming this 
arrangement to be quite as satisfactory to the reader as any 
classification founded on the nature of the subjects or their mode 
of treatment. 

New York, August, 1876. 



CONTENTS 



Poems : 

The Ages .... 
^^Thanatopsis .... 

.. The Yellow Violet 
^inscription for the Entrance to a Wood 

Song . . - . . r 

To a Waterfowl .... 
-^Green River 

A Winter Piece .... 

The West Wind 
( The Burial-place— A Fragment . 
I ' ' Blessed are they that mourn " 

" No Man knoweth his Sepulchre " 

A Walk at Sunset . 

Hymn to Death .... 

The Massacre at Scio 

The Indian Girl's Lament 

Ode for an Agricultural Celebration 

Rizpah ..... 

The Old Man's Funeral 

The Rivulet 

March ..... 

Consumption .... 

An Indian Story 

Summer Wind .... 

An Indian at the Burial-place of his Fathers 

Song ..... 



Page 

3 
20 

24 
26 
28 
-9 
31 
35 

4^ 

43 

46 
48 

4S 
52 
5< 
60 
62 
64 
67 

e 9 
73 
75 
75 
79 

Si 
85 



CONTENTS. 



S 



Poems : 

Hymn of the Waldenses 
Monument Mountain 
After a Tempest 
Autumn Woods 
Mutation 
November 

Song of the Greek Amazon 
To a Cloud 

The Murdered Traveller 
Hymn to the North Star 
The Lapse of Time 
Song of the Stars' 
A Forest Hymn 

" Oh, Fairest of the Rural Maids " 
4 ' I broke the Spell that held me long ' 
June .... 
A Song of Pitcairn's Island 
The Firmament .... 
" I cannot forget with what Fervid Devotion ' 
To a Mosquito .... 
Lines on revisiting the Country 
~ The Death of the Flowers 
Romero 

A Meditation on Rhode Island Coal 
The New Moon 
October . 

The Damsel of Peru 
The African Chief 
Spring in Town 
The Gladness of Nature 
The Disinterred Warrior 
Midsummer 
The Greek Partisan 
The Two Graves 

The Conjunction of Jupiter and Venus 
A Summer Ramble 
A Scene on the Banks of the Hudson 
The Hurricane .... 



PAGE 



CONTENTS. 



Poems : 

William Tell 

The Hunter's Serenade ..... 

The Greek Boy 

The Past ....... 

" Upon the Mountain's Distant Head " 

The Evening Wind ...... 

" When the Firmament quivers with Daylight's Young Beam " 

" Innocent Child and Snow-white Flower " 

To the River Arve .... 

To Cole, the Painter, departing for Europe . 
\ ,^ To the Fringed Gentian 

The Twenty-second of December 

Hymn of the City .... 
__T-he Prairies ..... 
^c-isong of Marion's Men 

The Arctic Lover . 

The Journey of Life 



PAGE 
167 
168 
170 
171 
*73 
175 
177 
178 
179 
181 
181 
182 
183 
184 
189 
191 
193 



Translations : 

Version of a Fragment of Simonides ...... 197 

From the Spanish of Villegas . . . . . . .198 

Mary Magdalen. (From the Spanish of Bartolome Leonardo de Argensola) 199 

The Life of the Blessed. (From the Spanish of Luis Ponce de Leon) . . 200 

Fatima and Raduan. (From the Spanish) ..... 201 

Love and Folly. (From La Fontaine) ...... 203 

The Siesta. (From the Spanish) ...... 205 

The Alcayde of Molina. (From the Spanish) ..... 206 

The Death of Aliatar. (From the Spanish) ..... 207 

Love in the Age of Chivalry. (From Peyre Vidal, the Troubadour) . . 211 

The Love of God. (From the Provencal of Bernard Rascas) . . 212 
From the Spanish of Pedro de Castro y Afiaya . . . . .212 

Sonnet. (From the Portuguese of Semedo) ..... 214 

Song. (From the Spanish of Iglesias) ...... 214 

The Count of Greiers. (From the German of Uhland) . . . 216 

The Serenade. (From the Spanish) ...... 218 

A Northern Legend. (From the German of Uhland) . . . 220 

The Paradise of Tears. (From the German of N. Miiller) . . . 222 

The Lady of Castle Windeck. (From the German of Chamisso) . . 223 



Vlll 



CONTENTS. 



Later Poems : 

To the Apennines 
Earth 

The Knight's Epitaph 
The Hunter of the Prairies 
Seventy-six . 
The Living Lost 
Catterskill Falls 
The Strange Lady 
Life . 

"Earth's Children cleave to Earth 
The Hunter's Vision 
The Green Mountain Boys 
A Presentiment 
The Child's Funeral 
The Battle-field 
The Future Life 
The Death of Schiller 
The Fountain 
The Winds . 

The Old Man's Counsel . „ 
In Memory of William Leggett 
An Evening Revery 
The Painted Cup . 
r *-~^A Dream 
'■-„ The Antiquity of Freedom . 

The Maiden's Sorrow . 
The Return of Youth 
A Hymn of the Sea 
Noon. (From an Unfinished Poem) 
The Crowded Street 
The White-footed Deer 
The Waning Moon 
The Stream of Life 
The Unknown Way 
" Oh Mother of a Mighty Race " . 
The Land of Dreams . 
The Burial of Love 
The May Sun sheds an Amber Light 



CONTENTS. 



Later Poems : 


PAGE 


The Voice of Autumn . . . . , . 


• 3i5 


l/The Conqueror's Grave ...... 


3i3 


~-"The Planting of the Apple-Tree ...... 

The Snow-Shower ....... 


3 2 ° 
323 


A Rain-Dream ........ 


326 


Robert of Lincoln ....... 


330 


The Twenty-seventh of March ...... 


• 333 


An Invitation to the Country ...... 


335 


A Song- for New- Year's Eve ...... 


• 337 


The Wind and Stream ....... 


333 


The Lost Bird. (From the Spanish of Carolina Coronado de Perry) . 


• 339 


The Night- Journey of a River ..... 


34i 


The Life that is ....... 


• 345 


Song — '' These Prairies glow with Flowers " 


347 


ASick-Bed ......... 


• 348 


The Song of the Sower ...... 


35° 


The New and the Old ....... 


. 361 


The Cloud on the Way ...... 


363 


The Tides ......... 


• 365 


Italy ......... 


367 


A Day-Dream ........ 


• 369 


The Ruins of Italica. (From the Spanish of Rioja) . 
^ Waiting by the Gate ....... 


37i 
• 374 


Not yet . 


377 


Our Country's Call ........ 

The Constellations . . . . . ... 


• 379 

381 


The Third of November, 1861 ...... 


• 383 


The Mother's Hymn ....... 


384 


Sella 


• 385 


The Fifth Book of Homer's Odyssey. (Translated) 

The Little People of the Snow ...... 


402 
420 


The Poet ........ 


434 


The Path ......... 


• 437 


The Return of the Birds ....... 


439 


" He hath put all Things under His Feet " .... 


. 442 


My Autumn Walk ........ 


443 


Dante ......... 


. 445 


The Death of Lincoln ....... 


446 



CONTENTS. 



Later Poems : 

The Death of Slavery ..... 

" Receive thy Sight " ...... 

A Brighter Day. (From the Spanish) 

Among the Trees ..... 

May Evening ...... 

October, 1866 . 

The Order of Nature. (From Boethius de Consolatione) 

Tree-Burial ....... 

A Legend of the Delawares .... 

A Lifetime ....... 

The Two Travellers ..... 

Christmas in 1875. (Supposed to be written by a Spaniard; 
The Flood of Years ..... 

Our Fellow-Worshippers . 



447 
449 
45o 
452 
458 
460 
462 
464 
466 

47i 
476 

479 
481 

485 



Notes 



487 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 



The ancestry of William Cullen Bryant might have been inferred from 
the character of his writings, which reflect whatever is best and noblest in 
the life and thought of New England. It was a tradition that the first 
Bryant of whom there is any account in the annals of the New World came 
over in the Mayflower, but the tradition is not authenticated. What is 
known of this gentleman, Mr. Stephen Bryant, is that he came over from 
England, and that he was at Plymouth, Mass., as early as 1632. He mar- 
ried Abigail Shaw, who had emigrated with her father, and who bore him 
several children between 1650 and 1665, it is to be presumed at Plymouth, 
of which town he was chosen constable in 1663. Stephen Bryant had a son 
named Ichabod, who was the father of Philip Bryant, who was born in 1732. 
Philip Bryant married Silence Howard, the daughter of Dr. Abiel Howard, 
of West Bridgewater, whose profession he adopted, being a practitioner in 
medicine in North Bridgewater. He was the father of nine children, one of 
whom, Peter Bryant, born in 1767, succeeded him in his profession. Young 
Dr. Bryant became enamored of Miss Sarah Snell, the daughter of Mr. Eben- 
ezer Snell, of Bridgewater, who removed his family to Cummington, w r hither 
he was followed by his future son-in-law, who married the lady of his love in 
1792. Two years later, on the 3d of November, there was born to him a 
man-child, who was to win, and to leave, 

" One of the few immortal names 
That were not born to die." 

Dr. Bryant was proud of his profession ; and in the hope, no doubt, that 
his son would become a shining light therein, he perpetuated at his christen- 
ing the name of a great medical authority who had departed this life four years 
before — William Cullen. Dr. Bryant was the last of his family to practise 



xii WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

the healing art, for Nature, wiser than he, early determined the future course 
of Master William Cullen Bryant. He was not to be a doctor, but a poet. 
A poet, that is, if he lived to be anything ; for the chances were against his 
living at all. The lad was exceedingly frail, and had a head the immensity 
of which troubled his anxious father. How to reduce it to the normal size 
was a puzzle which Dr. Bryant solved in a spring of clear, cold water, which 
burst out of the ground on or near his homestead, and into which the child 
was immersed every morning, head and all, by two of Dr. Bryant's students 
— kicking lustily, we may be sure, at this matutinal dose of hydropathy. 

William Cullen Bryant came of Mayflower stock, his mother being a 
descendant of John Alden, and the characteristics of his family included some 
of the sterner qualities of the Puritans. Grandfather Snell was a magistrate, 
and, without doubt, a severe one, for the period was not one which favored 
leniency to criminals. The whipping-post was still extant in Massachusetts, 
and the poet remembered that it stood about a mile from his early home at 
Cummington, and that he once saw a young fellow of eighteen who had 
received forty lashes as a punishment for a theft he had committed. It was, 
he thought, the last example of corporal punishment inflicted by law in that 
neighborhood, though the whipping-post remained in its place for several 
years, a possible terror to future evil-doers. " Spare the rod, spoil the child," 
was the Draconian code then ; and the rod, in the shape of a little bundle of 
birchen twigs, bound together with a small cord, was generally suspended on 
a nail against the wall in the kitchen, and was as much a part of the neces- 
sary furniture as the crane that hung in the fire-place, or the shovel and 
tongs. 

Magistrate Snell was a disciplinarian of the stricter sort ; and as he and his 
wife resided with Dr. Bryant and his family, the latter stood in awe of him, 
so much so that young William Cullen was prevented from feeling anything 
like affection for him. It was an age of repression, not to say oppression, 
for children, who had few rights that their elders were bound to respect. To 
the terrors of the secular arm were added the deeper terrors of the spiritual law, 
for the people of that primitive period were nothing if not religious. The 
Minister was the great man ; and his bodily presence was a restraint upon 
the unruly, and the ruly too, for that matter. The lines of our ancestors did 
not fall in pleasant places as far as recreations were concerned ; for they were 
few and far between, consisting, for the most part, of militia musters, " rais- 
ings," corn-huskings, and singing schools, diversified with the making of 
maple sugar and cider. Education was confined to the three R's, though 
the children of wealthy parents were sent to colleges as they are now. It 
was not a genial social condition, it must be confessed, to which William 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. xiii 

Cullen Bryant was born, though it might have been worse but for his good 
father, who was in many respects superior to his rustic neighbors. A broad- 
shouldered, muscular gentleman, proud of his strength, his manners were 
gentle and reserved, his disposition was serene, and he was fond of society. 
He was not without political distinction, for he was elected to the Massachu- 
setts House of Representatives for several terms, and afterward to the State 
Senare, and he associated, with the cultivated circles of Boston both as a leg- 
islator and as a physician. 

William Cullen Bryant was fortunate in his father, who, if he was dis- 
appointed when he found that his son was born to be a follower of Apollo 
and not of ^Esculapius, kept his disappointment to himself, and encouraged 
the lad in his poetical attempts. We have the authority of the poet himself 
that his father taught his youth the art of verse, and that he offered him to 
the Muses in the bud of life. His first efforts were several clever " Enigmas," 
in imitation of the Latin writers, a translation from Horace, and a copy of 
verses which were written in his twelfth year, to be recited at the close of the 
winter school, " in the presence of the Master, the Minister of the parish, and 
a number of private gentlemen." They were printed on the 18th of March, 
1807, in the Hampshire Gazette, from which these particulars are derived, 
and which was favored with other contributions from the pen of " C. B." 

The juvenile poems of William Cullen Bryant are as clever as those of 
Chatterton, Pope, and Cowley ; but they are in no sense original, and it 
would have been strange if they had been. There was no original writing 
in America at the time they were written ; and if there had been, it would 
hardly have commended itself to the old-fashioned taste of Dr. Bryant, to 
whom Pope was still a power in poetry, as Addison, no doubt, was in prose. 
It was natural, therefore, that he should offer his boy to the strait-laced 
Muses of Queen Anne's time ; that the precocious boy should lisp in heroic 
couplets, and that he should endeavor to be satirical. Politics were running 
high in the first decade of the present century, and the favorite bugbear in 
New England was President Jefferson, who in 1807 had laid an embargo 
on American shipping, in consequence of the decrees of Napoleon, and the 
British orders in council in relation thereto. This act was denounced, and 
by no one more warmly than by Master Bryant, who made it the subject of 
a satire, which was published in Boston in 1808. It was entitled " The Em- 
bargo ; or, Sketches of the Times," and was printed for the purchasers, who 
were found in sufficient numbers to exhaust the first edition. It is said to 
have been well received, but doubts were expressed as to whether the author 
was really a youth of thirteen. His friends came to his rescue in an " Adver- 
tisement," which was prefixed to a second edition of his little brochure, pub- 



xiv WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

lished in the following year, and certified to his age from their personal 
knowledge of himself and his family. They also certified to his extraordinary 
talents, though they should prefer to have him judged by his works, without 
favor or affection. They concluded by stating that the printer was authorized 
to disclose their names and places of residence. 

The early poetical exercises of William Cullen Bryant, like those of all 
young poets, were colored by the books which he read. Among these were 
the works of Pope, as I have already intimated, and, no doubt, the works of 
Cowper and Thomson. The latter, if they were in the library of Dr. Bryant, 
do not appear to have impressed his son at this time ; nor, indeed, does any- 
English poet except Pope, so far as we can judge from his contributions to 
the Hampshire Gazette, which were continued from time to time. They 
were bookish and patriotic ; one, which was written at Cummington on the 8th 
of January, 1810, being "The Genius of Columbia; " and another, "An Ode 
for the Fourth of July, 181 2," to the tune of " Ye Gentlemen of England." 
These productions are undeniably clever, but they are not characteristic of 
their writer, nor of the nature which surrounded his birthplace, with which 
he was familiar, and of which he was a close observer, as his poetry was soon 
to disclose. 

He entered Williams College, in Williamstown, Mass., in his sixteenth 
year, and remained there until 181 2, distinguishing himself for aptness and 
industry in classical learning and polite literature. At the end of two years 
he withdrew, and commenced the study of law, first with Judge Howe, of 
Worthington, and afterward with Mr. William Baylies, of Bridgewater. So 
far he had written nothing but clever amateur verse ; but now, in his eight- 
eenth year, he wrote an imperishable poem. The circumstances under 
which it was composed have been variously stated, but they agree in the 
main particulars, and are thus given in "The Bryant Homestead Book" 
(1870), apparently on authentic information: "It was here at Cumming- 
ton, while wandering in the primeval forests, over the floor of which were 
scattered the gigantic trunks of fallen trees, mouldering for long years, and 
suggesting an indefinitely remote antiquity, and where silent rivulets crept 
along through the carpet of dead leaves, the spoil of thousands of summers, 
that the poem entitled ' Thanatopsis ' was composed. The young poet had 
read the poems of Kirke White, which, edited by Southey, were published 
about that time, and a small volume of Southey's miscellaneous poems ; and 
some lines of those authors had kindled his imagination, which, going forth 
over the face of the inhabitants of the globe, sought to bring under one broad 
and comprehensive view the destinies of the human race in the present life, 
and the perpetual rising and passing away of generation after generation who 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. xv 

are nourished by the iruits of its soil, and find a resting place in its bosom." 
We should like to know what lines in Southey and Kirke White suggested 
" Thanatopsis," that they might be printed in letters of gold hereafter. 

When the young poet quitted Cummington to begin his law studies, he 
left the manuscript of this incomparable poem among his papers in the house 
of his father, who found it after his departure. " Here are some lines that 
our William has been writing," he said to a lady to whom he showed them. 
She read them, and, raising her eyes to the face of Dr. Bryant, burst into 
tears — a tribute to the genius of his son in which he was not ashamed to 
join. Blackstone bade his Muse a long adieu before he turned to wrangling 
courts and stubborn law ; and our young lawyer intended to do the same 
(for poetry was starvation in America seventy years ago), but habit and 
nature were too strong for him. There is no difficulty in tracing the succes- 
sion of his poems, and in a few instances the places where they were written, 
or with which they concerned themselves. " Thanatopsis," for example, was 
followed by u The Yellow Violet," which was followed by the " Inscription for 
the Entrance to a Wood," and the song beginning " Soon as the glazed and 
gleaming snow." The exquisite lines " To a Waterfowl " were written at 
Bridgewater, in his twentieth year, where he was still pursuing the study of 
law, which appears to have been distasteful to him. The concluding stanza 
sank deeply into a heart that needed its pious lesson : 

" He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 
Will lead my steps aright." 

The lawyer-poet had a long way before him, but he did not tread it alone ; 
for, after being admitted to the bar in Plymouth, and practising for a time in 
Plainfield, near Cummington, he removed to Great Barrington, in Berkshire, 
where he saw the dwelling of the Genevieve of his chilly little "Song," his 
Genevieve being Miss Frances Fairchild of that beautiful town, whom he 
married in his twenty-seventh year, and who was the light of his household 
for nearly half a century. It was to her, the reader may like to know, that he 
addressed the ideal poem beginning "O fairest of the rural maids" {circa 
1825), "The Future Life" (1837), and "The Life That Is" (1858); and 
her memory and her loss are tenderly embalmed in one of the most touching 
of his later poems, "October, 1866." 

" Thanatopsis " was sent to the North American Review (whether by its 
author or his father we are not told), and with such a modest, not to say 
enigmatical, note of introduction, that its authorship was left in doubt. The 



xvi WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

Review was managed by a club of young literary gentlemen, who styled 
themselves " The North American Club," two of whose members, Mr. 
Richard Henry Dana and Mr. Edward Tyrrel Channing, were considered its 
editors. Mr. Dana read the poem carefully, and was so surprised at its ex- 
cellence that he doubted whether it was the production of an American, an 
opinion in which his associates are understood to have concurred. While 
they were hesitating about its acceptance, he was told that the writer was a 
member of the Massachusetts Senate, and, the Senate being then in session, 
he started immediately from Cambridge for Boston. He reached the State 
House, and inquired for Senator Bryant. A tall, middle-aged man, with a 
business-like look, was pointed out to him. He was satisfied that he could 
not be the poet he sought, so he posted back to Cambridge without an intro- 
duction. The story ends here, and rather tamely ; for the original narrator 
forgot, or perhaps never knew, that Dr. Bryant was a member of the Senate, 
and that it was among the possibilities that he was the Senator with a similar 
name. American Poetry may be said to have commenced in 1817 with the 
September number of the North American Review, which contained " Than- 
atopsis " and the "Inscription for the Entrance of a Wood," the last being 
printed as a " Fragment." Six months later, in March, 1818, the impression 
which " Thanatopsis " created was strengthened by the appearance of the 
lines "To a Waterfowl," and the "Version of a Fragment of Simonides." 

Mr. Bryant's literary life may now be said to have begun, though he de- 
pended upon the practice of his profession for his daily bread. He continued 
his contributions to the North American Review in the shape of prose 
papers on literary topics, and maintained the most friendly relations with its 
conductors, notably so with Mr. Dana, who was seven years his elder, and 
who possessed, like himself, the accomplishment of verse. At the suggestion 
of this poetical and critical brother, he was invited to deliver a poem before 
the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Harvard College— an honor which is offered 
only to those who have already made a reputation, and are likely to reflect 
credit on the Society as well as on themselves. He accepted, and in 1821 
wrote his first poem of any length, " The Ages," which still remains the best 
poem of the kind that was ever recited before a college society either in this 
country or in England ; grave, stately, thoughtful, presenting in animated, 
picturesque stanzas a compact summary of the history of mankind. A young 
Englishman of twenty-one— Thomas Babington Macaulay— delivered in the 
same year a poem on "Evening," before the students of Trinity College, 
Cambridge ; and it is instructive to compare his conventional heroics with the 
spirited Spenserian stanzas of William Cullen Bryant. The lines "To a 
Waterfowl," which were written at Bridgewater in 181 5, were followed by 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. xvii 

" Green River," "A Winter Piece," " The West Wind," " The Burial-Place," 
"Blessed are they that mourn," "No man knoweth his sepulchre," "A 
Walk at Sunset," and the "Hymn to Death." 

These poems, which cover a period of six busy years, are interesting to 
the poetic student as examples of the different styles of their writer, and of 
the changing elements of his thoughts and feelings. " Green River," for ex- 
ample, is a momentary revealment of his shy temperament and his daily pur- 
suits. Its glimpses of nature are charming, and his wish to be beside its 
waters is the most natural one in the world. The young lawyer is not com- 
plimentary to his clients, whom he styles "the dregs of men," while his pen, 
which does its best to serve them, becomes " a barbarous pen." He is 
dejected, but a visit to the river will restore his spirits ; for, as he gazes upon 
its lonely and lovely stream, 

" An image of that calm life appears 
That won my heart in my greener years." 

"A Winter Piece" is a gallery of woodland pictures which surpasses any- 
thing of the kind in the language. "A Walk at Sunset " is notable in that 
it is the first poem in which we see (faintly, it must be confessed) the abo- 
riginal element, which was soon to become a prominent one in Air. Bryant's 
poetry. It was inseparable from the primeval forests of the New World, but 
he was the first to perceive its poetic value. The " Hymn to Death " — 
stately, majestic, consolatory — concludes with a touching tribute to the 
worth of his good father, who died while he was writing it, at the age of fifty- 
four. The year 1821 was an important one to Mr. Bryant, for it witnessed 
the publication of his first collection of verse, his marriage, and the death of 
his father. 

The next four years of Mr. Bryant's life were more productive than any 
that had preceded them, for he wrote upward of thirty poems during that 
time. The aboriginal element was creative in " The Indian Girl's Lament," 
"An Indian Story," " An Indian at the Burial-Place of his Fathers," and, 
noblest of all, " Monument Mountain ; " the Hellenic element predominated 
in " The Massacre at Scio " and " The Song of the Greek Amazon ; " the 
Hebraic element touched him lightly in " Rizpah " and the "Song of the 
Stars ; " and the pure poetic element was manifest in " March," " The Rivu- 
let " (which, by the way, ran through the grounds of the old homestead at 
Cummington), "After a Tempest," "The Murdered Traveler," ''Hymn to 
the North Star," "A Forest Hymn," " O fairest of the rural maids," and 
the exquisite and now most pathetic poem, "June." These poems and 
others not specified here, if read continuously and in the order in which they 



xviii WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

were composed, show a wide range of sympathies, a perfect acquaintance 
with many measures, and a clear, capacious, ever-growing intellect. They 
are all distinctive of the genius of their author, but neither exhibits the full 
measure of his powers. We can say of none of them, " The man who wrote 
this will never write any better." 

The publication of Mr. Bryant's little volume of verse was indirectly the 
cause of his adopting literature as a profession. It was warmly commended, 
and by no one more so than by Mr. Gulian C. Verplanck, in the columns of the 
New York American. He was something of a literary authority at the time, a 
man of fortune and college-bred, known in a mild way as the author of an 
anniversary discourse delivered before the New York Historical Society in 
1818, of a political satire entitled "The Bucktail Bards," and later of an 
" Essay on the Doctrine of Contracts." Among his friends was Mr. Henry 
D. Sedgwick, a summer neighbor, so to speak, of Mr. Bryant's, having a 
country-house at Stockbridge, a few miles from Great Barrington, and a 
house in town, which was frequented by the literati of the day, such as 
Verplanck, Halleck, Percival, Cooper, and others of less note. An ardent 
admirer of Mr. Bryant, Mr. Sedgwick set to work, with the assistance of 
Mr. Verplanck, to procure him literary employment in New York, in order 
to enable him to escape his hated bondage to the law ; and he was appoint- 
ed assistant editor of a projected periodical called the New York Review 
and Athenczum Magazine. The at last enfranchised lawyer dropped his 
barbarous pen, closed his law-books, and in the winter or spring of 1825 re- 
moved with his household to New York. The projected periodical was 
started, as these sanguine ventures always are, with fair hopes of success. 
It was well edited, and its contributors were men of acknowledged ability. 
The June number contained two poems which ought to have made a great 
hit. One was " A Song of Pitcairn's Island ; " the other was " Marco Boz- 
zaris." There was no flourish of trumpets over them, as there would be now ; 
the writers merely prefixed their initials, " B." and " H." The reading pub- 
lic of New York were not ready for the Review, which had been projected 
for their mental enlightenment ; so, after about a year's struggle, it was 
merged in the New York Literary Gazette, which began its mission about 
four years before. This magazine shared the fate of its companion in a few 
months, when it was consolidated with the United States Literary Gazette, 
which in two months was swallowed up in the United States Review. The 
honor of publishing and finishing the last was shared by Boston and New 
York. Profit in these publications there was none, though Bryant, Halleck, 
Willis, Dana, Bancroft, and Longfellow wrote for them. Too good, or not 
good enough, they lived and died prematurely. Mr. Bryant's success as a 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. xix 

metropolitan man of letters was not brilliant so far ; but there were other 
walks than those of pure literature open to him, as to others, and into one 
of the most bustling of these he entered in his thirty-second year. In other 
words, he became one of the editors of the Evening Post. Henceforth he 
was to live by journalism. 

Journalism, though an exacting pursuit, leaves its skillful followers a little 
leisure in which to cultivate literature. It was the heyday of those epheme- 
ral trifles, Annuals, and Mr. Bryant found time to edit one, with the assist- 
ance of his friend Mr. Verplanck, and his acquaintance Mr. Robert C. Sands 
(who, by the way, was one of the editors of the Commercial Advertiser), 
and a very creditable work it was. His contributions to " The Talisman " 
included some of his best poems. Poetry was the natural expression of his 
genius — a fact which he could never understand, for it always seemed to him 
that prose was the natural expression of all mankind. His prose was, and 
always continued to be, masterly. Its earliest examples, outside of his crit- 
ical papers in the North American Review and other periodicals (and out- 
side of the Evening Post, of course), are two stories entitled " Medfield " and 
" The Skeleton's Cave," contributed by him to " Tales of the Glauber Spa" 
(1832) — a collection of original stories by Mr. James K. Paulding, Mr. Ver- 
planck, Mr. Sands, Mr. William Leggett, and Miss Catharine Sedgwick. 
Three years before (1829) he had become the chief editor of the Evening 
Post. Associated with him was Mr. Leggett, who had shown some talent 
as a writer of sketches and stories, and who had failed, like himself, in con- 
ducting a critical publication, for which his countrymen were not ready. He 
made a second collection of his poems at this time (1832), a copy of which 
was sent by Mr. Verplanck to Mr. Washington Irving, who was then, what 
he had been for years, the idol of English readers, and not without weight 
with the Trade. Would he see if some English house would not reprint 
it ? No leading publisher nibbled at it, not even Murray, who was Mr. Ir- 
ving's publisher; but an obscure bookseller named Andrews finally agreed 
to undertake it, if Mr. Irving would put his valuable name on the title-page 
as the editor. He was not acquainted with Mr. Bryant, but he was a kind- 
hearted, large-souled gentleman, who knew good poetry when he saw it, and 
he consented to " edit " the book. He was not a success in the estimation 
of Andrews, who came to him one day, by no means a merry Andrew, and 
declared that the book would ruin him unless one or more changes were 
made in the text. What was amiss in it? He turned to the "Song of 
Marion's Men," and stumbled over an obnoxious couplet in the first stanza: 

" The British soldier trembles 
When Marion's name is told.'' 



xx WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

" That won't do at all, you know." The absurdity of the objection must have 
struck the humorist comically ; but as he wanted the volume republished, he 
good-naturedly saved the proverbial valor of the British soldier by changing 
the first line to 

" The foeman trembles in his camp," , 

and the tempest in a teapot was over, as far as England was concerned. Not 
as far as the United States was concerned, however ; for when the circum- 
stance became known to Mr. Leggett, he excoriated Mr. Irving for his sub- 
serviency to a bloated aristocracy, and so forth. Mr. John Wilson reviewed 
the book in Blackwood's Magazine in a half-hearted way, patronizing the 
writer with his praise. 

The poems that Mr. Bryant wrote during the first seven years of his 
residence in New York (some forty in number, not including translations) 
exhibited the qualities which distinguished his genius from the beginning, 
and were marked by characteristics which were rather acquired than inher- 
ited. In other words, they were somewhat different from those which were 
written at Great Barrington. The Hellenic element was still visible in " The 
Greek Partisan " and " The Greek Boy," and the aboriginal element in " The 
Disinterred Warrior." The large imagination of " The Hymn to the North 
Star" was radiant in " The Firmament," and in " The Past." Ardent love 
of nature found expressive utterance in " Lines on Revisiting the Country," 
" The Gladness of Nature," " A Summer Ramble," " A Scene on the Banks 
of the Hudson," and " The Evening Wind." The little book of immortal 
dirges had a fresh leaf added to it in " The Death of the Flowers," which 
was at once a pastoral of autumn and a monody over a beloved sister. A 
new element appeared in " The Summer Wind," and was always present 
afterward in Mr. Bryant's meditative poetry — the association of humanity 
with nature — a calm but sympathetic recognition of the ways of man and 
his presence on the earth. The power of suggestion and of rapid generali- 
zation, which was the key-note of " The Ages," lived anew in every line of 
" The Prairies," in which a series of poems present themselves to the imagi- 
nation as a series of pictures in a gallery — pictures in which breadth and 
vigor of treatment and exquisite delicacy of detail are everywhere harmoni- 
ously blended, and the unity of pure Art is attained. It was worth going to 
the ends of the world to be able to write " The Prairies." 

Confiding in the discretion of his associate Mr. Leggett, and anxious to 
escape from his daily editorial labors, Mr. Bryant sailed for Europe with his 
family in the summer of 1834. It was his intention to perfect his literary 
studies while abroad, and to devote himself to the education of his children ; 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. xxi 

but his intention was frustrated, after a short course of travel in France, 
Germany, and Italy, by the illness of Mr. Leggett, whose mistaken zeal in 
the advocacy of unpopular measures had seriously injured the Evening Post. 
He returned in haste early in 1836, and devoted his time and energies to 
restoring the prosperity of his paper. Nine years passed before he ventured 
to return to Europe, though he managed to visit certain portions of his own 
country. His readers tracked his journeys through the letters which he 
wrote to the Evening Post, and which were noticeable for justness of obser- 
vation and clearness of expression. A selection from Mr. Bryant's foreign 
and home letters was published in 1852, under the title of "Letters of a 
Traveler." 

The life of a man of letters is seldom eventful. There are, of course, 
exceptions to the rule ; for literature, like other polite professions, is never 
without its disorderly followers. It is instructive to trace their careers, which 
are usually short ones ; but the contemplation of the calm, w T ell-regulated, 
self-respecting lives of the elder and wiser masters is much more satisfac- 
tory. We pity the Maginns, and Mangans, and Poes, whom we have always 
with us ; but we admire and reverence such writers as Wordsworth, and 
Thackeray, and Bryant, who dignify their high calling. The last thirty years 
of the life of Mr. Bryant were devoid of incidents, though one of them (1866) 
was not without the supreme sorrow — death. He devoted himself to jour- 
nalism as conscientiously as if he still had his spurs to win, discussing all 
public questions with independence and fearlessness ; and from time to time, 
as the spirit moved him, he added to our treasures of song, contributing to 
the popular magazines of the period, and occasionally issuing these contribu- 
tions in separate volumes. He published " The Fountain and Other Poems " 
in 1842 ; " The White-Footed Deer and Other Poems " in 1844 ; a collected 
edition of his poems, with illustrations by Leutze, in 1846 ; an edition in two 
volumes in 1855 ; "Thirty Poems " in 1866; and in 1876 the present illus- 
trated and only complete edition of his poetical writings. To the honors 
which these volumes brought him he added fresh laurels in 1870 and 1871 by 
the publication of his translation of the " Iliad " and the " Odyssey" — a transla- 
tion which was highly praised both at home and abroad, and which, if not the 
best that the English language is capable of, is, in many respects, the best 
which any English-writing poet has yet produced. 

There comes a day in the intellectual lives of most poets when their 
powers cease to be progressive and productive, or are productive only 
in the forms to which they have accustomed themselves, and which have 
become mannerisms. It was not so with Mr. Bryant. He enjoyed the dan- 
gerous distinction of proving himself a great poet at an early age ; he pre- 



xxii WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

served this distinction to the last, for the sixty-four years which elapsed be- 
tween the writing of " Thanatopsis " and the writing of " The Flood of 
Years " witnessed no decay of his poetic capacities, but rather the growth 
and development of trains of thought and forms of verse of which there was 
no evidence in his early writings. His sympathies were enlarged as the years 
went on, and the crystal clearness of his mind was colored with human emo- 
tions. 

To Bryant, beyond all other modern poets, the earth was a theatre upon 
which the great drama of life was everlastingly played. The remembrance 
of this fact is his inspiration in " The Fountain," " An Evening Revery," 
"The Antiquity of Freedom," "The Crowded Street," "The Planting of the 
Apple-Tree," "The Night Journey of a River," "The Sower," and "The 
Flood of Years." The most poetical of Mr. Bryant's poems are, perhaps, 
"The Land of Dreams," " The Burial of Love," " The May sun sheds an 
amber light," and " The Voice of Autumn ; " and they were written in a 
succession of happy hours, and in the order named. Next to these pieces, 
as examples of pure poetry, should be placed " Sella " and " The Little People 
of the Snow," which are exquisite fairy fantasies. The qualities by which 
Mr. Bryant's poetry are chiefly distinguished are serenity and gravity of 
thought ; an intense though repressed recognition of the mortality of man- 
kind ; an ardent love for human freedom ; and unrivaled skill in painting 
the scenery of his native land. He had no superior in this walk of poetic art 
— it might almost be said no equal, for his descriptions of nature are never 
inaccurate or redundant. " The Excursion " is a tiresome poem, which con- 
tains several exquisite episodes. Mr. Bryant knew how to write exquisite 
episodes, and to omit the platitudes through which we reach them in other 
poets. 

It is not given to many poets to possess as many residences as Mr. 
Bryant, for he had three — a town-house in New York, a country-house, called 
" Cedarmere," at Roslyn, Long Island, and the old homestead of the Bryant 
family at Cummington. He passed the winter months in New York, and 
the summer and early autumn months at his country-houses. No distin- 
guished man in America was better known by sight than he. 

" O good gray head that all men knew," 

rose unbidden to one's lips as he passed his fellow-pedestrians in the streets 
of the great city, active, alert, with a springing step and a buoyant gait. He 
was seen in all weathers, walking down to his office in the morning, and 
back to his house in the afternoon — an observant antiquity, with a majestic 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. xxiii 

white beard, a pair of sharp eyes, and a face which, noticed closely, recalled 
the line of the poet, 

" A million wrinkles carved his skin." 

Mr. Bryant had a peculiar talent, in which the French excel — the talent 
of delivering discourses upon the lives and writings of eminent men ; and he 
was always in request after the death of his contemporaries. 

Beginning with a eulogy on his friend Cole, the painter, who died in 1848, 
he paid his well-considered tributes to the memory of Cooper and Irving, and 
assisted at the dedication in the Central Park of the Morse, Shakespeare, 
Scott, and Halleck monuments. His addresses on those occasions, and others 
that might be named, were models of justice of appreciation and felicity of ex- 
pression. His last public appearance was at the Central Park, on the after- 
noon of May 29th, 1878, at the unvailing of a statue to Mazzini. It was an 
unusually hot day, and after delivering his address, which was remarkable for 
its eloquence, he accompanied General James Grant Wilson, an acquaintance 
of some years' standing, to his residence in East Seventy-fourth street. Gen- 
eral Wilson reached his door with Mr. Bryant leaning on his arm ; he took a 
step in advance to open the inner door, and while his back was turned the 
poet fell, striking his head on the stone platform of the front steps. It was 
his death-blow; for, though he recovered his consciousness sufficiently to 
converse a little, and was able to ride to his own house with General Wil- 
son, his fate was sealed. He lingered until the morning of the 12th of June, 
when his capacious spirit passed out into the Unknown. Two days later all 
that was mortal of him was buried beside the grave of his wife at Roslyn. 

Such was the life and such the life-work of William Cullen Bryant. 

R. H. STODDARD. 



POEMS 




THE AGES. 



When to the common rest that crowns our days, 
Called in the noon of life, the good man goes, 
Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays 
His silver temples in their last repose ; 



POEMS. 

When, o'er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows 
And blights the fairest ; when our bitter tears 
Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close, 
We think on what they were, with many fears 
Lest goodness die with them, and leave the coming years. 

II. 

And therefore, to our hearts, the days gone by, 
When lived the honored sage whose death we wept, 
And the soft virtues beamed from many an eye, 
And beat in many a heart that long has slept — 
Like spots of earth where angel-feet have stepped, 
Are holy ; and high-dreaming bards have told 
Of times when worth was crowned, and faith was kept 
Ere friendship grew a snare, or love waxed cold — 
Those pure and happy times — the golden days of old. 

ill. 

Peace to the just man's memory ; let it grow 
Greener with years, and blossom through the flight 
Of ages ; let the mimic canvas show 
His calm benevolent features ; let the light 
Stream on his deeds of love, that shunned the sight 
Of all but heaven, and in the book of .fame 
The glorious record of his virtues write 
And hold it up to men, and bid them claim 
A palm like his, and catch from him the hallowed flame. 

IV. 

But oh, despair not of their fate who rise 
To dwell upon the earth when we withdraw ! 
Lo ! the same shaft by which the righteous dies, 
Strikes through the wretch that scoffed at mercy's law, 



THE AGES. 




¥~*®r& - 



NaUire, in her calm, majestic march." 



POEMS. 

And trode his brethren down, and felt no awe 
Of Him who will avenge them. Stainless worth, 
Such as the sternest age of virtue saw, 
Ripens, meanwhile, till time shall call it forth 
From the low modest shade, to light and bless the earth. 

v. 

Has Nature, in her calm, majestic march, 
Faltered with age at last ? does the bright sun 
Grow dim in heaven ? or, in their far blue arch, 
Sparkle the crowd of stars, when day is done, 
Less brightly ? when the dew-lipped Spring comes on, 
Breathes she with airs less soft, or scents the sky 
With flowers less fair than when her reign begun ? 
Does prodigal Autumn, to our age, deny 
The plenty that once swelled beneath his sober eye ? 

VI. 

Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth 
In her fair page ; see, every season brings 
New change, to her, of everlasting youth ; 
Still the green soil, with joyous living things, 
Swarms, the wide air is full of joyous wings, 
And myriads, still, are happy in the sleep 
Of ocean's azure gulfs, and where he flings 
The restless surge. Eternal love doth keep, 
In his complacent arms, the earth, the air, the deep. 

VII. 

Will then the merciful One, who stamped our race 
With his own image, and who gave them sway 
O'er earth, and the glad dwellers on her face, 
Now that our swarming nations far away 



THE AGES. 

Are spread, where'er the moist earth drinks the day, 
Forget the ancient care that taught and nursed 
His latest offspring? will he quench the ray 
Infused by his own forming smile at first, 
And leave a work so fair all blighted and accursed ? 

VIII. 

Oh, no ! a thousand cheerful omens give 
Hope of yet happier days, whose dawn is nigh. 
He who has tamed the elements, shall not live 
The slave of his own passions ; he whose eye 
Unwinds the eternal dances of the sky, 
And in the abyss of brightness dares to span ; 

The sun's broad circle, rising yet more high, 
In God's magnificent works his will shall scan— 
And love and peace shall make their paradise with man. 

IX. 

Sit at the feet of History — through the night 
Of years the steps of virtue she shall trace. 
And show the earlier ages, where her sight 
Can pierce the eternal shadows o'er their face ; — 
When, from the genial cradle of our race, 
Went forth tribes of men, their pleasant lot 
To choose, where palm-groves cooled their dwelling-place, 
Or freshening rivers ran ; and there forgot 
The truth of heaven, and kneeled to gods that heard them not. 

x. 

Then waited not the murderer for the night, 
But smote his brother down in the bright day, 
And he who felt the wrong, and had the might, 
His own avenger, girt himself to slay ; 



POEMS. 

Beside the path the unburied carcass lay ; 
The shepherd, by the fountains of the glen, 
Fled, while the robber swept his flock away, 
And slew his babes. The sick, untended then, 
Languished in the damp shade, and died afar from men. 

XI. 

But misery brought in love ; in passion's strife 
Man gave his heart to mercy, pleading long, 
And sought out gentle deeds to gladden life ; 
The weak, against the sons of spoil and wrong, 
Banded, and watched their hamlets, and grew strong ; 
States rose, and, in the shadow of their might, 
The timid rested. To the reverent throng, 
Grave and time-wrinkled men, with locks all white, 
Gave laws, and judged their strifes, and taught the way of right 

XII. 

Till bolder spirits seized the rule, and nailed 
On men the yoke that man should never bear, 
And drave them forth to battle. Lo ! unveiled 
The scene of those stern ages ! What is there ! 
A boundless sea of blood, and the wild air, 
Moans with the crimson surges that entomb 
Cities and bannered armies ; forms that wear 
The kingly circlet rise, amid the gloom, 
O'er the dark wave, and straight are swallowed in its womb. 

XIII. 

Those ages have no memory, but they left 
A record in the desert — columns strown 
On the waste sands, and statues fallen and cleft, 
Heaped like a host in battle overthrown ; 



THE AGES. 




m^. 



Vast ruins, where the mountain's ribs of stone 
Were hewn into a city ; streets that spread 



POEMS. 

In the dark earth, where never breath has blown 
Of heaven's sweet air, nor foot of man dares tread 
The long and perilous ways — the Cities of the Dead ! 

XIV. 

And tombs of monarchs to the clouds up-piled — 
They perished, but the eternal tombs remain — 
And the black precipice, abrupt and wild, 
Pierced by long toil and hollowed to a fane ; — 
Huge piers and frowning forms of gods sustain 
The everlasting arches, dark and wide, 
Like the night-heaven, when clouds are black with rain, 
But idly skill was tasked, and strength was plied, 
All was the work of slaves to swell a despot's pride. 

xv. 

And virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign 
O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke ; 
She left the down-trod nations in disdain, 
And flew to Greece, when Liberty awoke, 
New-born, amid those glorious vales, and broke 
Sceptre and chain with her fair youthful hands : 
As rocks are shivered in the thunder-stroke. 
And lo ! in full-grown strength, an empire stands 
Of leagued and rival states, the wonder of the lands. 

xvi. 

Oh, Greece ! thy flourishing cities were a spoil 
Unto each other; thy hard hand oppressed 
And crushed the helpless ; thou didst make thy soil 
Drunk with the blood of those that loved thee best ; 



THE AGES. II 

And thou didst drive, from thy unnatural breast, 
Thy just and brave to die in distant climes ; 
Earth shuddered at thy deeds, and sighed for rest 
From thine abominations ; after-times, 
That yet shall read thy tale, will tremble at thy crimes ! 

XVII. 

Yet there was that within thee which has saved 
Thy glory, and redeemed thy blotted name ; 
The story of thy better deeds, engraved 
On fame's unmouldering pillar, puts to shame 
Our chiller virtue ; the high art to tame 
The whirlwind of the passions was thine own ; 
And the pure ray, that from thy bosom came, 
Far over many a land and age has shone, 
And mingles with the light that beams from God's own throne. 

XVIII. 

And Rome — thy sterner, younger sister, she 
Who awed the world with her imperial frown — 
Rome drew the spirit of her race from thee, 
The rival of thy shame and thy renown. 
Yet her degenerate children sold the crown 
Of earth's wide kingdoms to a line of slaves ; 
Guilt reigned, and woe with guilt, and plagues came down, 
Till the North broke its floodgates, and the waves 
Whelmed the degraded race, and weltered o'er their graves. 



XIX. 



Vainly that ray of brightness from above, 
That shone around the Galilean lake, 
The light of hope, the leading star of love, 
Struggled, the darkness of that day to break ; 



12 POEMS. 

Even its own faithless guardians strove to slake, 
In fogs of earth, the pure ethereal flame ; 
And priestly hands, for Jesus' blessed sake, 
Were red with blood, and charity became, 
In that stern war of forms, a mockery and a name. 

xx. 

They triumphed, and less bloody rites were kept 
Within the quiet of the convent-cell ; 
The well-fed inmates pattered prayer, and slept, 
And sinned, and liked their easy penance well. 
Where pleasant was the spot for men to dwell, 
Amid its fair broad lands the abbey lay, 
Sheltering dark orgies that were shame to tell, 
And cowled and barefoot beggars swarmed the way, 
All in their convent weeds, of black, and white, and gray. 

XXI. 

Oh, sweetly the returning muses' strain 
Swelled over that famed stream, whose gentle tide 
In their bright lap the Etrurian vales detain, 
Sweet, as when winter storms have ceased to chide, 
And all the new-leaved woods, resounding wide, 
Send out wild hymns upon the scented air. 
Lo ! to the smiling Arno's classic side 
The emulous nations of the West repair, 
And kindle their quenched urns, and drink fresh spirit there. 

XXII. 

Still, heaven deferred the hour ordained to rend 
From saintly rottenness the sacred stole ; 
And cowl and worshipped shrine could still defend 
The wretch with felon stains upon his soul ; 



THE AGES. 



13 




And crimes were set to sale, and hard his dole 
Who could not bribe a passage to the skies ; 



14 poems. : 

And vice, beneath the mitre's kind control, 
Sinned gayly on, and grew to giant size, 
Shielded by priestly power, and watched by priestly eyes. 



XXIII. 

At last the earthquake came — the shock, that hurled 
To dust, in many fragments dashed and strown, 
The throne, whose roots were in another world, 
And whose far-stretching shadow awed our own. 
From many a proud monastic pile, o'erthrown, 
Fear-struck, the hooded inmates rushed and fled ; 
The web, that for a thousand years had grown 
O'er prostrate Europe, in that day of dread 
Crumbled and fell, as fire dissolves the flaxen thread. 



XXIV. 

The spirit of that day is still awake, 
And spreads himself, and shall not sleep again ; 
But through the idle mesh of power shall break 
Like billows o'er the Asian monarch's chain ; 
Till men are filled with him, and feel how vain. 
Instead of the pure heart and innocent hands, 
Are all the proud and pompous modes to gain 
The smile of Heaven ; — till a new age expands 
Its white and holy wings above the peaceful lands. 

XXV. 

For look again on the past years ; — behold, 

How like the nightmare's dreams have flown away 

Horrible forms of worship, that, of old, 

Held, o'er the shuddering realms, unquestioned sway 



THE AGES. 15 

See crimes, that feared not once the eye of day, 
Rooted from men, without a name or place : 
See nations blotted out from earth, to pay 
The forfeit of deep guilt ; — with glad embrace 
The fair disburdened lands welcome a nobler race. 

XXVI. 

Thus error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven ; 
They fade, they fly — but Truth survives their flight ; 
Earth has no shades to quench that beam of heaven ; 
Each ray that shone, in early time, to light 
The faltering footstep in the path of right, 
Each gleam of clearer brightness shed to aid 
In man's maturer day his bolder sight, 
All blended, like the rainbow's radiant braid, 
Pour yet, and still shall pour, the blaze that cannot fade. 

XXVII. 

Late, from this Western shore, that morning chased 
The deep and ancient night, which threw its shroud 
O'er the green land of groves, the beautiful waste, 
Nurse of full streams, and lifter-up of proud 
Sky-mingling mountains that o'erlook the cloud. 
Erewhile, where yon gay spires their brightness rear, 
Trees waved, and the brown hunter's shouts were loud 
Amid the forest ; and the bounding deer 
Fled at the glancing plume, and the gaunt wolf yelled near. 

XXVIII. 

And where his willing waves yon bright blue bay 
Sends up, to kiss his decorated brim, 
And cradles, in his soft embrace, the gay 
Young group of grassy islands born of him, 



i6 



POEMS. 




~~~^H- 



And crowding nigh, or in the distance dim, 
Lifts the white throng of sails, that bear or bring 



THE AGES. 



17 



The commerce of the world ; — with tawny limb, 
And belt and beads in sunlight glistening, 
The savage urged his skiff like wild bird on the wing. 

XXIX. 

Then all his youthful paradise around, 
And all the broad and boundless mainland, lay 
Cooled by the interminable wood, that frowned 
O'er mount and vale, where never summer ray 
Glanced, till the strong tornado broke his way 
Through the gray giants of the sylvan wild ; 
Yet many a sheltered glade, with blossoms gay 
Beneath the showery sky and sunshine mild, 
Within the shaggy arms of that dark forest smiled. 

XXX. 

There stood the Indian hamlet, there the lake 
Spread its blue sheet that flashed with many an oar, 
Where the brown otter plunged him from the brake, 
And the deer drank : as the light gale flew o'er. 
The twinkling maize-field rustled on the shore : 
And while that spot, so wild, and lone, and fair. 
A look of glad and guiltless beauty wore, 
And peace was on the earth and in the air, 
The warrior lit the pile, and bound his captive there. 



XXXI. 

Not unavenged— the foeman, from the wood, 
Beheld the deed, and when the midnight shade 
Was stillest, gorged his battle-axe with blood ; 
All died — the wailing babe — the shrinking maid — 

2 



iS 



POEMS. 




And in the flood of fire that scathed the glade, 
The roofs went down ; but deep the silence grew, 
When on the dewy woods the day-beam played ; 
No more the cabin-smokes rose wreathed and blue, 
And ever, by their lake, lay moored the bark canoe. 



THE AGES. 



*9 



XXXII. 

Look now abroad — another race has filled 
These populous borders — wide the wood recedes, 
And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled : 
The land is full of harvests and green meads ; 
Streams numberless, that many a fountain feeds, 
Shine, disembowered, and give to sun and breeze 
Their virgin waters ; the full region leads 
New colonies forth, that toward the western seas 
Spread, like a rapid flame among the autumnal trees. 



Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, 
Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place 
A limit to the giant's unchained strength, 
Or curb his swiftness in the forward race ? 
On, like the comet's way through infinite space, 
Stretches the long untravelled path of light, 
Into the depths of ages ; we may trace, 
Afar, the brightening glory of its flight, 
Till the receding rays are lost to human sight. 



xxxiv. 

Europe is given a prey to sterner fates, 
And writhes in shackles ; strong the arms that chain 
To earth her struggling multitude of states ; 
She too is strong, and might not chafe in vain 
Against them, but might cast to earth the train 
That trample her, and break their iron net. 
Yes, she shall look on brighter days and gain 
The meed of worthier deeds ; the moment set 
To rescue and raise up, draws near — but is not yet. 



2o POEMS. 



XXXV. 



But thou, my country, thou shalt never fall, 
Save with thy children — thy maternal care, 
Thy lavish love, thy blessings showered on all— 
These are thy fetters — seas and stormy air 
Are the wide barrier of thy borders, where, 
Among thy gallant sons who guard thee well, 
Thou laugh'st at enemies : who shall then declare 
The date of thy deep-founded strength, or tell 
How happy, in thy lap, the sons of men shall dwell ? 



THANATOPSIS. 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language ; for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ;— 
Go forth, under the open sky, and list 



THAN A T0PS1S. 



21 







^%v 



^m? 






To Nature's teachings, while from all around— 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 



22 POEMS. 

Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix for ever with the elements, ■* 

To be a brother to the insensible rock 

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 

Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
The venerable woods — rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, 
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 



THANATOPSIS. 23 

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, 
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there : 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man — ' 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 
By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 



24 POEMS. 



THE YELLOW VIOLET. 



When beechen buds begin to swell, 

And woods the blue-bird's warble know, 

The yellow violet's modest bell 

Peeps from the last year's leaves below. 

Ere russet fields their green resume, 
Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, 

To meet thee, when thy faint perfume 
Alone is in the virgin air. 

Of all her train, the hands of Spring 
First plant thee in the watery mould, 

And I have seen thee blossoming 
Beside the snow-bank's edges cold. 

Thy parent sun, who bade thee view 
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, 

Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, 
And streaked with jet thy glowing lip. 

Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, 
And earthward bent thy gentle eye, 

Unapt the passing view to meet 

When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh. 

Oft, in the sunless April day, 

Thy early smile has stayed my walk ; 

But midst the gorgeous blooms of May, 
I passed thee on thy humble stalk. 



THE YELLOW VIOLET. 



^5 




1 Beside the snow-bank 's edges cold. 



26 POEMS. 



So they, who climb to wealth, forget 
The friends in darker fortunes tried. 

I copied them — but I regret 

That I should ape the ways of pride. 

And when again the genial hour 
Awakes the painted tribes of light, 

I'll not o'erlook the modest flower 

That made the woods of April bright. 



INSCRIPTION FOR THE ENTRANCE TO A WOOD. 

Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs 
No school of long experience, that the world 
Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen 
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares, 
To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood 
And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade 
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze 
That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm 
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here 
Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men, 
And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse 
Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth, 
But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt 
Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades 
Are still the abodes of gladness ; the thick roof 



INSCRIPTION FOR THE ENTRANCE TO A WOOD. 



2/ 




Of green and stirring branches is alive 
And musical with birds, that sing and sport 
In wantonness of spirit ; while below 
The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect, 
Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade 
Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam 
That waked them into life. Even the green trees 
Partake the deep contentment ; as they bend 



28 POEMS. 

To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky 

Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene. 

Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy 

Existence, than the winged plunderer 

That sucks its sweets. The mossy rocks themselves, 

And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees 

That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude 

Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots, 

With all their earth upon them, twisting high, 

Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet 

Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed 

Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, 

Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice 

In its own being. Softly tread the marge, 

Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren 

That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, 

That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, 

Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass 

Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace. 



SONG. 



Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow 
Reflects the day-dawn cold and clear, 

The hunter of the West must go 
In depth of wood to seek the deer. 



TO A WATERFOWL. 29 

His rifle on his shoulder placed, 

His stores of death arranged with skill, 
His moccasins and snow-shoes laced — 

Why lingers he beside the hill ? 

Far, in the dim and doubtful light, 

Where woody slopes a valley leave, 
He sees what none but lover might, 

The dwelling of his Genevieve. 

And oft he turns his truant eye, 

And pauses oft, and lingers near ; 
But when he marks the reddening sky, 

He bounds away to hunt the deer. 



TO A WATERFOWL. 



Whither, midst falling dew, 
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 

Thy solitary way ? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 



30 



POEMS. 







Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean-side ? 



There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast- 
The desert and illimitable air — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 



GREEN RIVER. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end ; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend, 

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart. 

\He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. ) 



31 



GREEN RIVER. 



When breezes are soft and skies are fair, 
I steal an hour from study and care, 
And hie me away to the woodland scene, 
Where wanders the stream with waters of green, 



32 



POEMS. 




As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink 
Had given their stain to the wave they drink ; 
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, 
Have named the stream from its own fair hue. 



GREEN RIVER. 

Yet pure its waters — its shallows are bright 
With colored pebbles and sparkles of light, 
And clear the depths where its eddies play, 
And dimples deepen and whirl away, 
And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot 
The swifter current that mines its root, 
Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, 
The quivering glimmer of sun and rill 
With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, 
Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone. 
Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, 
With blossoms, and birds, and wild-bees' hum ; 
The flowers of summer are fairest there, 
And freshest the breath of the summer air ; 
And sweetest the golden autumn day 
In silence and sunshine glides away. 



Yet fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide, 
Beautiful stream ! by the village side ; 
But windest away from haunts of men, 
To quiet valley and shaded glen ; 
And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, 
Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still, 
Lonely— save when, by thy rippling tides, 
From thicket to thicket the angler glides ; 
Or the simpler comes, with basket and book 
For herbs of power on thy banks to look ; 
Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me, 
To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee, 
Still — save the chirp of birds that feed 
On the river cherry and seedy reed, 
And thy own wild music gushing out 
With mellow murmur of fairy shout, 



33 



34 



POEMS. 







From dawn to the blush of another day, 
Like traveller singing along his way. 



That fairy music I never hear, 
Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, 
And mark them winding away from sight, 
Darkened with shade or flashing with light, 
While o'er them the vine to its thicket clings, 
And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings, 
But I wish that fate had left me free 
To wander these quiet haunts with thee, 
Till the eating cares of earth should depart, 
And the peace of the scene pass into my heart 



A WINTER PIECE. 

And I envy thy stream, as it glides along 
Through its beautiful banks in a trance of song. 

Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, 
And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, 
And mingle among the jostling crowd, 
Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud — 
I often come to this quiet place, 
To breathe the airs that ruffle thy face, 
And gaze upon thee in silent dream, 
For in thy lonely and lovely stream 
An image of that calm life appears 
That won my heart in my greener years. 



35 



A WINTER PIECE. 

The time has been that these wild solitudes, 
Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me 
Oftener than now ; and when the ills of life 
Had chafed my spirit — when the unsteady pulse 
Beat with strange flutterings — I would wander forth 
And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path 
Was to me as a friend. The swelling hills, 
The quiet dells retiring far between, 
With gentle invitation to explore 
Their windings, were a calm society 
That talked with me and soothed me. Then the chant 



36 



POEMS. 




Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow, 
And all was white." 



A WINTER PIECE. 

Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress 

Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget 

The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began 

To gather simples by the fountain's brink, 

And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood 

In Nature's loneliness, I was with one 

With whom I early grew familiar, one 

Who never had a frown for me, whose voice 

Never rebuked me for the hours I stole 

From cares I loved not, but of which the world 

Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked 

The bleak November winds, and smote the woods, 

And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades, 

That met above the merry rivulet, 

Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still ; they seemed 

Like old companions in adversity. 

Still there was beauty in my walks ; the brook, 

Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay 

As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar, 

The village with its spires, the path of streams 

And dim receding valleys, hid before 

By interposing trees, lay visible 

Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts 

Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come 

Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts, 

Had shaken down on earth the feather}- snow, 

And all was white. The pure keen air abroad, 

Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard 

Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee, 

Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept 

Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds, 

That lay along the boughs, instinct with life, 

Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring, 

Feared not the piercing spirit of the North. 



37 



38 POEMS. 

The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough, 

And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent 

Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry 

A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves, 

The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow 

The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track 

Of fox, and the raccoon's broad path, were there, 

Crossing each other. From his hollow tree 

The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts 

Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway 

Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold. 

But Winter has yet brighter scenes — he boasts 
Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows ; 
Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods 
All flushed with many hues. Come when the rains 
Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice, 
While the slant sun of February pours 
Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach ! 
The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps, 
And the broad arching portals of the grove 
Welcome thy entering. Look ! the massy trunks 
Are cased in the pure crystal ; each light spray, 
Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven, 
Is studded with its trembling water-drops, 
That glimmer with an amethystine light. 
But round the parent-stem the long low boughs 
Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hide 
The glassy floor. Oh ! you might deem the spot 
The spacious cavern of some virgin mine, 
Deep in the womb of earth — where the gems grow, 
And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud 
With amethyst and topaz — and the place 
Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam 



A WINTER PIECE. 

That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall 
Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night, 
And fades not in the glory of the sun ; — 
Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts 
And crossing arches ; and fantastic aisles 
Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost 
Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye ; 
Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault ; 
There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud 
Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams 
Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose, 
And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air, 
And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light ; 
Light without shade. But all shall pass away 
With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks 
Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound 
Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve 
Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont. 

And it is pleasant, when the noisy streams 
Are just set free, and milder suns melt off 
The plashy snow, save only the firm drift 
In the deep glen or the close shade of pines — 
'Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smoke 
Roll up among the maples of the hill, 
Where the shrill sound of youthful voices wakes 
The shriller echo, as the clear pure lymph, 
That from the wounded trees, in twinkling drops, 
Falls, mid the golden brightness of the morn, 
Is gathered in with brimming pails, and oft, 
Wielded by sturdy hands, the stroke of axe 
Makes the woods ring. Along the quiet air, 
Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds, 
Such as you see in summer, and the winds 



39 



4 o 



POEMS. 



Scarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft, 
Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone 
The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye 
Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at — 
Startling the loiterer in the naked groves 
With unexpected beauty, for the time 
Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar. 
And ere it comes, the encountering winds shall oft 
Muster their wrath again, and rapid clouds 
Shade heaven, and bounding on the frozen earth 
Shall fall their volleyed stores, rounded like hail 
And white like snow, and the loud North again 
Shall buffet the vexed forest in his rage. 




THE WEST WIND. 41 



THE WEST WIND. 



Beneath the forest's skirt I rest, 

Whose branching pines rise dark and high, 
And hear the breezes of the West 

Among the thread-like foliage sigh. 



Sweet Zephyr ! why that sound of woe ? 

Is not thy home among the flowers ? 
Do not the bright June roses blow, 

To meet thy kiss at morning hours ? 



And lo ! thy glorious realm outspread — 
Yon stretching valleys, green and gay, 

And yon free hill-tops, o'er whose head 
The loose white clouds are borne away. 



And there the full broad river runs, 

And many a fount wells fresh and sweet, 

To cool thee when the mid-day suns 

Have made thee faint beneath their heat. 



Thou wind of joy, and youth, and love ; 

Spirit of the new-wakened year ! 
The sun in his blue realm above 

Smooths a bright path when thou art here. 



42 



POEMS. 



^M 




In lawns the murmuring bee is heard, 
The wooing ring-dove in the shade ; 

On thy soft breath, the new-fledged bird 
Takes wing, half happy, half afraid. 



Ah ! thou art like our wayward race ; — 
When not a shade of pain or ill 

Dims the bright smile of Nature's face, 
Thou lov'st to sigh and murmur still. 



THE BURIAL-PLACE. 



43 



THE BURIAL-PLACE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Erewhile, on England's pleasant shores, our sires 
Left not their churchyards unadorned with shades 
Or blossoms, but indulgent to the strong 
And natural dread of man's last home, the grave, 




44 



POEMS. 

Its frost and silence — they disposed around, 
To soothe the melancholy spirit that dwelt 
Too sadly on life's close, the forms and hues 
Of vegetable beauty. There the yew, 
Green even amid the snows of winter, told 
Of immortality, and gracefully 
The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped ; 
And there the gadding woodbine crept about, 
And there the ancient ivy. From the spot 
Where the sweet maiden, in her blossoming years 
Cut off, was laid with streaming eyes, and hands 
That trembled as they placed her. there, the rose 
Sprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better spoke 
Her graces, than the proudest monument. 
There children set about their playmate's grave 
The pansy. (On the infant's little bed, 
Wet at its planting with maternal tears, 
Emblem of early sweetness, early death, 
Nestled the lowly primrose. Childless dames, 
And maids that would not raise the reddened eye — 
Orphans, from whose young lids the light of joy 
Fled early — silent lovers, who had given 
All that they lived for to the arms of earth, 
Came often, o'er the recent graves to strew 
Their offerings, rue, and rosemary, and flowers. 

The pilgrim bands who passed the sea to keep 
Their Sabbaths in the eye of God alone, 
In his wide temple of the wilderness, 
Brought not these simple customs of the heart 
With them. It might be, while they laid their dead 
By the vast solemn skirts of the old groves, 
And the fresh virgin soil poured forth strange flowers 
About their graves ; and the familiar shades 



THE BURIAL-PLACE. 



45 




Of their own native isle, and wonted blooms, 

And herbs were wanting, which the pious hand 

Might plant or scatter there, these gentle rites 

Passed out of use. Now they are scarcely known, 

And rarely in our borders may you meet 

The tall larch, sighing in the burial-place, 

Or willow, trailing low its boughs to hide 

The gleaming marble. Naked rows of graves 

And melancholy ranks of monuments 

Are seen instead, where the coarse grass, between, 

Shoots up its dull green spikes, and in the wind 



4 6 POEMS. 

Hisses, and the neglected bramble nigh, 

Offers its berries to the schoolboy's hand, 

In vain — they grow too near the dead. Yet here, 

Nature, rebuking the neglect of man, 

Plants often, by the ancient mossy stone, 

The brier-rose, and upon the broken turf 

That clothes the fresher grave, the strawberry plant 

Sprinkles its swell with blossoms, and lays forth 

Her ruddy, pouting fruit 



BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN." 

Oh, deem not they are blest alone 
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ; 

The Power who pities man, hath shown 
A blessing for the eyes that weep. 

The light of smiles shall fill again 
The lids that overflow with tears ; 

And weary hours of woe and pain 
Are promises of happier years. 

There is a day of sunny rest 

For every dark and troubled night : 

And grief may hide an evening guest, 
But joy shall come with early light. 

And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, 
Dost shed the bitter drops like rain, 

Hope that a brighter, happier sphere 
Will give him to thy arms again. 



BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN: 



47 




Nor let the good man's trust depart, 
Though life its common gifts deny, — 

Though with a pierced and bleeding heart 
And spurned of men, he goes to die. 



For God hath marked each sorrowing day 
And numbered every secret tear, 

And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay 
For all his children suffer here. 



48 POEMS. 



"NO MAN KNOWETH HIS SEPULCHRE." 

When he, who, from the scourge of wrong, 
Aroused the Hebrew tribes to fly, 

Saw the fair region, promised long, 
And bowed him on the hills to die ; 

God made his grave, to men unknown, 
Where Moab's rocks a vale infold, 

And laid the aged seer alone 

To slumber while the world grows old. 

Thus still, whene'er the good and just 
Close the dim eye on life and pain, 

Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dust 
Till the pure spirit comes again. 

Though nameless, trampled, and forgot, 

His servant's humble ashes lie, 
Yet God hath marked and sealed the spot, 

To call its inmate to the sky. 



A WALK AT SUNSET. 

When insect wings are glistening in the beam 
Of the low sun, and mountain-tops are bright, 

Oh, let me, by the crystal valley-stream, 
Wander amid the mild and yellow light ; 



A WALK AT SUNSET. 49 

And while the wood-thrush pipes his evening lay, 
Give me one lonely hour to hymn the setting day. 



Oh, sun ! that o'er the western mountains now 

Go'st down in glory ! ever beautiful 
And blessed is thy radiance, whether thou 

Colorest the eastern heaven and night-mist cool, 
Till the bright day-star vanish, or on high 
Climbest and streamest thy white splendors from mid-sky. 



Yet, loveliest are thy setting smiles, and fair, 
Fairest of all that earth beholds, the hues 
That live among the clouds, and flush the air, 
Lingering and deepening at the hour of dews. 
Then softest gales are breathed, and softest heard 
The plaining voice of streams, and pensive note of bird. 



They who here roamed, of yore, the forest wide, 
Felt, by such charm, their simple bosoms won ; 
They deemed their quivered warrior, when he died, 
Went to bright isles beneath the setting sun ; 
Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair, 
And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air. 



So, with the glories of the dying day, 

Its thousand trembling lights and changing hues, 
The memory of the brave who passed away 
Tenderly mingled ; — fitting hour to muse 
On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed 
Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead. 
4 



5° 



POEMS. 




'^•"r- /J 



For ages, on the silent forests here, 

Thy beams did fall before the red man came 
To dwell beneath them ; in the shade the deer 
Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim. 
Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods, 
Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of floods. 



A WALK AT SUNSET. 



5* 



Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look, 

For ages, on their deeds in the hard chase, 
And well-fought wars ; green sod and silver brook 
Took the first stain of blood ; before thy face 
The warrior generations came and passed, 
And glory was laid up for many an age to last. 

Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze 

Goes down the west, while night is pressing on, 
And with them the old tale of better days, 

And trophies of remembered power, are gone. 
Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough 
Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now. 

I stand upon their ashes in thy beam, 

The offspring of another race, I stand, 
Beside a stream they loved, this valley-stream ; 
And where the night-fire of the quivered band 
Showed the gray oak by fits, and war-song rung, 
I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new tongue. 



Farewell ! but thou shalt come again — thy light 

Must shine on other changes, and behold 
The place of the thronged city still as night — 
States fallen — new empires built upon the old — 
But never shall thou see these realms again 
Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by savage men. 



52 POEMS. 



HYMN TO DEATH. 

Oh ! could I hope the wise and pure in heart 
Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem 
My voice unworthy of the theme it tries, — 
I would take up the hymn to Death, and say 
To the grim power, The world hath slandered thee 
And mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy brow 
They place an iron crown, and call thee king 
Of terrors, and the spoiler of the world, 
Deadly assassin, that strik'st down the fair, 
The loved, the good — that breathest on the lights 
Of virtue set along the vale of life, 
And they go out in darkness. I am come, 
Not with reproaches, not with cries and prayers, 
Such as have stormed thy stern, insensible ear 
From the beginning ; I am come to speak 
Thy praises. True it is, that I have wept 
Thy conquests, and may weep them yet again, 
And thou from some I love will take a life 
Dear to me as my own. Yet while the spell 
Is on my spirit, and I talk with thee 
In sight of all thy trophies, face to face, 
Meet is it that my voice should utter forth 
Thy nobler triumphs ; I will teach the world 
To thank thee. Who are thine accusers ? — Who ? 
The living ! — they who never felt thy power, 
And know thee not. The curses of the wretch 
Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy hand 
Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come, 



HYMN TO DEATH. 



53 




" When the armed chief, 
The conqueror of nations." 



54 POEMS. 

Are writ among thy praises. But the good — 
Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to peace, 
Upbraid the gentle violence that took off 
His fetters, and unbarred his prison-cell ? 

Raise then the hymn to Death. Deliverer ! 
God hath anointed thee to free the oppressed 
And crush the oppressor. When the armed chief, 
The conqueror of nations, walks the world, 
And it is changed beneath his feet, and all 
Its kingdoms melt into one mighty realm — 
Thou, while his head is loftiest and his heart 
Blasphemes, imagining his own right hand 
Almighty, thou dost set thy sudden grasp 
Upon him, and the links of that strong chain 
Which bound mankind are crumbled ; thou dost break 
Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust. 
Then the earth shouts with gladness, and her tribes 
Gather within their ancient bounds again. 
Else had the mighty of the olden time, 
Nimrod, Sesostris, or the youth who feigned 
His birth from Libyan Ammon, smitten yet 
The nations with a rod of iron, and driven 
Their chariot o'er our necks. Thou dost avenge, 
In thy good time, the wrongs of those who know 
No other friend. Nor dost thou interpose 
Only to lay the sufferer asleep, 
Where he who made him wretched troubles not 
His rest — thou dost strike down his tyrant too. 
Oh, there is joy when hands that held the scourge 
Drop lifeless, and the pitiless heart is cold. 
Thou too dost purge from earth its horrible 
And old idolatries ; — from the proud fanes 
Each to his grave their priests go out, till none 



HYMN TO DEATH. 

Is left to teach their worship ; then the fires 

Of sacrifice are chilled, and the green moss 

O'ercreeps their altars ; the fallen images 

Cumber the weedy courts, and for loud hymns, 

Chanted by kneeling multitudes, the wind 

Shrieks in the solitary aisles. When he 

Who gives his life to guilt, and laughs at all 

The laws that God or man has made, and round 

Hedges his seat with power, and shines in wealth, — 

Lifts up his atheist front to scoff at Heaven, 

And celebrates his shame in open day, 

Thou, in the pride of all his crimes, cutt'st off 

The horrible example. Touched by thine, 

The extortioner's hard hand foregoes the gold 

Wrung from the o'er-worn poor. The perjurer, 

Whose tongue was lithe, e'en now, and voluble 

Against his neighbor's life, and he who laughed 

And leaped for joy to see a spotless fame 

Blasted before his own foul calumnies, 

Are smit with deadly silence. He, who sold 

His conscience to preserve a worthless life, 

Even while he hugs himself on his escape, 

Trembles, as, doubly terrible, at length, 

Thy steps o'ertake him, and there is no time 

For parley, nor will bribes unclench thy grasp. 

Oft, too, dost thou reform thy victim, long 

Ere his last hour. And when the reveller, 

Mad in the chase of pleasure, stretches on, 

And strains each nerve, and clears the path of life 

Like wind, thou point'st him to the dreadful goal, 

And shak'st thy hour-glass in his reeling eye, 

And check'st him in mid course. Thy skeleton hand 

Shows to the faint of spirit the right path, 

And he is warned, and fears to step aside. 



55 



56 POEMS. 

Thou sett'st between the ruffian and his crime 

Thy ghastly countenance, and his slack hand 

Drops the drawn knife. But, oh, most fearfully 

Dost thou show forth Heaven's justice, when thy shafts 

Drink up the ebbing spirit — then the hard 

Of heart and violent of hand restores 

The treasure to the friendless wretch he wronged. 

Then from the writhing bosom thou dost pluck 

The guilty secret ; lips, for ages sealed, 

Are faithless to their dreadful trust at length, 

And give it up ; the felon's latest breath 

Absolves the innocent man who bears his crime ; 

The slanderer, horror-smitten, and in tears, 

Recalls the deadly obloquy he forged 

To work his brother's ruin. Thou dost make 

Thy penitent victim utter to the air 

The dark conspiracy that strikes at life, 

And aims to whelm the laws ; ere yet the hour 

Is come, and the dread sign of murder given. 

Thus, from the first of time, hast thou been found 
On virtue's side ; the wicked, but for thee, 
Had been too strong for the good ; the great of earth 
Had crushed the weak for ever. Schooled in guile 
For ages, while each passing year had brought 
Its baneful lesson, they had filled the world 
With their abominations ; while its tribes, 
Trodden to earth, imbruted, and despoiled, 
Had knelt to them in worship ; sacrifice 
Had smoked on many an altar, temple-roofs 
Had echoed with the blasphemous prayer and hymn : 
But thou, the great reformer of the world, 
Tak'st off the sons of violence and fraud 
In their green pupilage, their lore half learned — 



HYMN TO DEATH. 

Ere guilt had quite o'errun the simple heart 

God gave them at their birth, and blotted out 

His image. Thou dost mark them flushed with hope, 

As on the threshold of their vast designs 

Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik'st them down. 



Alas ! I little thought that the stern power, 
Whose fearful praise I sang, would try me thus 
Before the strain was ended. It must cease — 
For he is in his grave who taught my youth 
The art of verse, and in the bud of life 
Offered me to the Muses. Oh, cut off 
Untimely ! when thy reason in its strength, 
Ripened by years of toil and studious search, 
And watch of Nature's silent lessons, taught 
Thy hand to practise best the lenient art 
To which thou gavest thy laborious days, 
And, last, thy life. And, therefore, when the earth 
Received thee, tears were in unyielding eyes 
And on hard cheeks, and they who deemed thy skill 
Delayed their death-hour, shuddered and turned pale 
When thou wert gone. This faltering verse, which thou 
Shalt not, as wont, o'erlook, is all I have 
To offer at thy grave — this — and the hope 
To copy thy example, and to leave 
A name -of which the wretched shall not think 
As of an enemy's, whom they forgive 
As all forgive the dead. Rest, therefore, thou 
Whose early guidance trained my infant steps — 
Rest, in the bosom of God, till the brief sleep 
Of death is over, and a happier life 
Shall dawn to waken thine insensible dust. 



57 



58 POEMS. 

Now thou art not — and yet the men whose guilt 
Has wearied Heaven for vengeance — he who bears 
False witness — he who takes the orphan's bread, 
And robs the widow — he who spreads abroad 
Polluted hands in mockery of prayer, 
Are left to cumber earth. Shuddering I look 
On what is written, yet I blot not out 
The desultory numbers ; let them stand, 
The record of an idle revery. 



THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. 



Weep not for Scio's children slain ; 

Their blood, by Turkish falchions shed, 
Sends not its cry to Heaven in vain 

For vengeance on the murderer's head. 

Though high the warm red torrent ran 
Between the flames that lit the sky, 

Yet, for each drop, an armed man 
Shall rise, to free the land, or die. 



And for each corpse, that in the sea 
Was thrown, to feast the scaly herds, 

A hundred of the foe shall be 

A banquet for the mountain-birds. 



THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. 



59 




Stem rites and sad shall Greece ordain 
To keep that day along her shore, 

Till the last link of slavery's chain 
Is shattered, to be worn no more. 



6o POEMS. 



THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. 



An Indian girl was sitting where 
Her lover, slain in battle, slept ; 

Her maiden veil, her own black hair, 
Came down o'er eyes that wept ; 

And wildly, in her woodland tongue, 

This sad and simple lay she sung ; 

"I've pulled away the shrubs that grew 
Too close above thy sleeping head, 

And broke the forest-boughs that threw 
Their shadows o'er thy bed, 

That, shining from the sweet southwest, 

The sunbeams might rejoice thy rest. 

" It was a weary, weary road 

That led thee to the pleasant coast, 

Where thou, in his serene abode, 
Hast met thy father's ghost ; 

Where everlasting autumn lies 

On yellow woods and sunny skies. 

" 'Twas I the broidered mocsen made, 
That shod thee for that distant land 

'Twas I thy bow and arrows laid 
Beside thy still cold hand ; 

Thy bow in many a battle bent, 

Thy arrows never vainly sent. 



THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT. 



61 




" With wampum-belts I crossed thy breast, 
And wrapped thee in the bison's hide, 

And laid the food that pleased the best, 
In plenty, by thy side, 

And decked thee bravely, as became 

A warrior of illustrious name. 

" Thou'rt happy now, for thou hast passed 
The long dark journey of the grave, 

And in the land of light, at last, 
Hast joined the good and brave ; 



62 POEMS. 

Amid the flushed and balmy air, 
The bravest and the loveliest there. 

" Yet, oft to thine own Indian maid 

Even there thy thoughts will earthward stray- 
To her who sits where thou wert laid, 

And weeps the hours away, 
Yet almost can her grief forget, 
To think that thou dost love her yet. 

" And thou, by one of those still lakes 

That in a shining cluster lie, 
On which the south wind scarcely breaks 

The image of the sky, 
A bower for thee and me hast made 
Beneath the many-colored shade. 

" And thou dost wait and watch to meet 
My spirit sent to join the blessed, 

And, wondering what detains my feet 
From that bright land of rest, 

Dost seem, in every sound, to hear 

The rustling of my footsteps near." 



ODE FOR AN AGRICULTURAL CELEBRATION. 

Far back in the ages, 

The plough with wreaths was crowned ; 
The hands of kings and sages 

Entwined the chaplet round ; 



ODE FOR AN AGRICULTURAL CELEBRATION. 63 

Till men of spoil disdained the toil 

By which the world was nourished, 
And dews of blood enriched the soil 

Where green their laurels flourished. 
— Now the world her fault repairs — 

The guilt that stains her story ; 
And weeps her crimes amid the cares 

That formed her earliest glory. 

The proud throne shall crumble, 

The diadem shall wane, 
The tribes of earth shall humble 

The pride of those who reign ; 
And War shall lay his pomp away, — 

The fame that heroes cherish, 
The glory earned in deadly fray 

Shall fade, decay, and perish. 
Honor waits, o'er all the earth, 

Through endless generations, 
The art that calls her harvests forth, 

And feeds th' expectant nations. 



64 POEMS. 



RIZPAH. 



And he delivered them into the hands of the Gibeonites, and they hanged them in the hill before 
the Lord ; and they fell all seven together, and were put to death in the days of the harvest, in the 
first days, in the beginning of barley-harvest. 

And Rizpah, the daughter Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the 
beginning of harvest until the water dropped upon them out of heaven, and suffered neither the birds 
of the air to rest upon them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night. 2 Samuel, xxi. 10. 



Hear what the desolate Rizpah said, 
As on Gibeah's rocks she watched the dead. 
The sons of Michal before her lay, 
And her own fair children, dearer than they : 
By a death of shame they all had died, 
And were stretched on the bare rock, side by side. 
And Rizpah, once the loveliest of all 
That bloomed and smiled in the court of Saul, 
All wasted with watching and famine now, 
And scorched by the sun her haggard brow, 
Sat mournfully guarding their corpses there, 
And murmured a strange and solemn air ; 
The low, heart-broken, and wailing strain 
Of a mother that mourns her children slain : 

" I have made the crags my home, and spread 
On their desert backs my sackcloth bed ; 
I have eaten the bitter herb of the rocks, 
And drunk the midnight dew in my locks ; 
I have wept till I could not weep, and the pain 
Of my burning eyeballs went to my brain. 
Seven blackened corpses before me lie, 
In the blaze of the sun and the winds of the sky. 



RIZPAH. 



65 




I have watched them through the burning day, 
And driven the vulture and raven away ; 
5 



66 POEMS. 



And the cormorant wheeled in circles round, 
Yet feared to alight on the guarded ground. 
And when the shadows of twilight came, 
I have seen the hyena's eyes of flame, 
And heard at my side his stealthy tread, 
But aye at my shout the savage fled : 
And I threw the lighted brand to fright 
The jackal and wolf that yelled in the night. 

"Ye were foully murdered, my hapless sons, 
By the hands of wicked and cruel ones ; 
Ye fell, in your fresh and blooming prime, 
All innocent, for your father's crime. 
He sinned — but he paid the price of his guilt 
When his blood by a nameless hand was spilt ; 
When he strove with the heathen host in vain, 
And fell with the flower of his people slain, 
And the sceptre his children's hands should sway 
From his injured lineage passed away. 

" But I hoped that the cottage-roof would be 
A safe retreat for my sons and me ; 
And that while they ripened to manhood fast, 
They should wean my thoughts from the woes of the past ; 
And my bosom swelled with a mother's pride, 
As they stood in their beauty and strength by my side, 
Tall like their sire, with the princely grace 
Of his stately form, and the bloom of his face. 

" Oh, what an hour for a mother's heart, 
When the pitiless ruffians tore us apart ! 
When I clasped their knees and wept and prayed, 
And struggled and shrieked to Heaven for aid, 



THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL. 67 

And clung to my sons with desperate strength, 
Till the murderers loosed my hold at length, 
And bore me breathless and faint aside, 
In their iron arms, while my children died. 
They died — and the mother that gave them birth 
Is forbid to cover their bones with earth. 

" The barley-harvest was nodding white, 
When my children died on the rocky height, 
And the reapers were singing on hill and plain, 
When I came to my task of sorrow and pain. 
But now the season of rain is nigh, 
The sun is dim in the thickening sky, 
And the clouds in sullen darkness rest 
Where he hides his light at the doors of the west. 
I hear the howl of the wind that brings 
The long drear storm on its heavy wings ; 
But the howling wind and the driving rain 
Will beat on my houseless head in vain : 
I shall stay, from my murdered sons to scare 
The beasts of the desert, and fowls of air." 



THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL. 

I SAW an aged man upon his bier, 

His hair was thin and white, and on his brow 
A record of the cares of many a year ; — 

Cares that were ended and forgotten now. 



68 POEMS. 

And there was sadness round, and faces bowed, 

And woman's tears fell fast, and children wailed aloud. 

Then rose another hoary man and said, 
In faltering accents, to that weeping train : 

" Why mourn ye that our aged friend is dead ? 
Ye are not sad to see the gathered grain, 

Nor when their mellow fruit the orchards cast, 

Nor when the yellow woods let fall the ripened mast. 

" Ye sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled, 
His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky, 

In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled, 
Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie, 

And leaves the smile of his departure, spread 

O'er the warm-colored heaven and ruddy mountain-head. 

" Why weep ye then for him, who, having won 
The bound of man's appointed years, at last, 

Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done, 
Serenely to his final rest has passed ; 

While the soft memory of his virtues, yet, 

Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set ? 

" His youth was innocent ; his riper age 

Marked with some act of goodness every day ; 

And watched by eyes that loved him, calm and sage, 
Faded his late declining years away. 

Meekly he gave his being up, and went 

To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent. 

" That life was happy ; every day he gave 
Thanks for the fair existence that was his ; 

For a sick fancy made him not her slave, 
To mock him with her phantom miseries. 



THE RIVULET. 69 

No chronic tortures racked his aged limb, 

For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him. 

r " And I am glad that he has lived thus long, 

And glad that he has gone to his reward ; 
Nor can I deem that Nature did him wrong, 

Softly to disengage the vital cord. 
For when his hand grew palsied, and his eye 
Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die." 



THE RIVULET. 

This little rill, that from the springs 
Of yonder grove its current brings, 
Plays on the slope awhile, and then 
Goes prattling into groves again, 
Oft to its warbling waters drew 
My little feet, when life was new. 
When woods in early green were dressed, 
And from the chambers of the west 
The warmer breezes, travelling out, 
Breathed the new scent of flowers about, 
My truant steps from home would stray, 
Upon its grassy side to play, 
List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn, 
And crop the violet on its brim, 
With blooming cheek and open brow, 
As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou. 



7° 



POEMS. 




And when the days of boyhood came, 
And I had grown in love with fame, 
Duly I sought thy banks, and tried 
My first rude numbers by thy side. 
Words cannot tell how bright and gay 
The scenes of life before me lay. 
Then glorious hopes, that now to speak 
Would bring the blood into my cheek, 
Passed o'er me ; and I wrote, on high, 
A name I deemed should never die. 



Years change thee not. Upon yon hill 
The tall old maples, verdant still, 



THE RIVULET. 71 

Yet tell, in grandeur of decay, 
How swift the years have passed away 
Since first, a child, and half afraid, 
I wandered in the forest shade. 
Thou, ever-joyous rivulet, 
Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet ; 
And sporting with the sands that pave 
The windings of thy silver wave, 
And dancing to thy own wild chime, 
Thou laughest at the lapse of time. 
The same sweet sounds are in my ear 
My early childhood loved to hear ; 
As pure thy limpid waters run ; 
As bright they sparkle to the sun ; 
As fresh and thick the bending ranks 
Of herbs that line thy oozy banks ; 
The violet there, in soft May dew, 
Comes up, as modest and as blue ; 
As green amid thy current's stress, 
Floats the scarce-rooted watercress ; 
And the brown ground-bird, in thy glen, 
Still chirps as merrily as then. 



Thou changest not— but I am changed 
Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged ; 
And the grave stranger, come to see 
The play-place of his infancy, 
Has scarce a single trace of him 
Who sported once upon thy brim. 
The visions of my youth are past — 
Too bright, too beautiful to last. 
I've tried the world— it wears no more 
The coloring of romance it wore. 



¥ 



72 POEMS. 

Yet well has Nature kept the truth 
She promised in my earliest youth. 
The radiant beauty shed abroad 
On all the glorious works of God, 
Shows freshly, to my sobered eye, 
Each charm it wore in days gone by. 

Yet a few years shall pass away, 
And I, all trembling, weak, and gray, 
Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold 
My ashes in the embracing mould, 
(If haply the dark will of Fate 
Indulge my life so long a date), 
May come for the last time to look 
Upon my childhood's favorite brook. 
Then dimly on my eye shall gleam 
The sparkle of thy dancing stream ; 
And faintly on my ear shall fall 
Thy prattling current's merry call ; 
Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright 
As when thou met'st my infant sight. 

And I shall sleep — and on thy side, 
As ages after ages glide, 
Children their early sports shall try, 
And pass to hoary age and die. 
But thou unchanged from year to year, 
Gayly shalt play and glitter here ; 
Amid young flowers and tender grass 
Thy endless infancy shall pass ; 
And, singing down thy narrow glen, 
Shalt mock the fading race of men. - 



MARCH. 



MARCH. 



73 



The stormy March is come at last, 

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies ; 

I hear the rushing of the blast, 

That through the snowy valley flies. 

Ah, passing few are they who speak, 
Wild, stormy month ! in praise of thee ; 

Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, 
Thou art a welcome month to me. 

For thou, to northern lands, again 
The glad and glorious sun dost bring, 

And thou hast joined the gentle train 
And vvear'st the gentle name of Spring. 

And, in thy reign of blast and storm, 
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, 

When the changed winds are soft and warm, 
And heaven puts on the blue of May. 

Then sing aloud the gushing rills 

In joy that they again are free, 
And, brightly leaping down the hills, 

Renew their journey to the sea. 

The year's departing beauty hides 
Of wintry storms the sullen threat ; 

But in thy sternest frown abides 
A look of kindly promise yet. 

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, 
And that soft time of sunny showers, 

When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, 
Seems of a brighter world than ours. 



74 



POEMS. 




Ay, thou artjor the grave." 



CONSUMPTION. 



CONSUMPTION. 

Ay, thou art for the grave ; thy glances shine 

Too brightly to shine long ; another Spring 
Shall deck her for men's eyes — but not for thine — 

Sealed in a sleep which knows no wakening. 
The fields for thee have no medicinal leaf, 

And the vexed ore no mineral of power ; 
And they who love thee wait in anxious griel 

Till the slow plague shall bring the fatal hour. 
Glide softly to thy rest, then ; Death should come 

Gently, to one of gentle mould like thee, 
As light winds wandering through groves of bloom 

Detach the delicate blossom from the tree. 
Close thy sweet eyes, calmly, and without pain : 
And w T e will trust in God to see thee yet again. 



75 



AN INDIAN STORY. 

" I KNOW where the timid fawn abides 

In the depths of the shaded dell, 
Where the leaves are broad and the thicket hides, 
With its many stems and its tangled sides, 

From the eye of the hunter well. 

" I know where the young May violet grows, 

In its lone and lowly nook, 
On the mossy bank, where the larch-tree throws 
Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose, 

Far over the silent brook. 



7 6 



POEMS. 




And that timid fawn starts not with fear 
When I steal to her secret bower." 



AN INDIAN STORY. 

" And that timid fawn starts not with fear 

When I steal to her secret bower ; 
And that young- May violet to me is dear, 
And I visit the silent streamlet near, 

To look on the lovely flower." 

Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks 

To the hunting-ground on the hills ; 
'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks, 
With her bright black eyes and long black locks, 

And voice like the music of rills. 

He goes to the chase — but evil eyes 

Are at watch in the thicker shades ; 
For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs, 
And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize, 

The flower of the forest maids. 

The boughs in the morning wind are stirred, 

And the woods their song renew, 
With the early carol of many a bird, 
And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard 

Where the hazels trickle with dew. 

And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid, 

Ere eve shall redden the sky, 
A good red deer from the forest shade, 
That bounds with the herd through grove and glade, 

At her cabin-door shall lie. 

The hollow woods, in the setting sun, 

Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay ; 
And Maquon 's sylvan labors are done, 
And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won 

He bears on his homeward way. 



77 



POEMS. 

He stops near his bower — his eye perceives 

Strange traces along the ground — 
At once to the earth his burden he heaves ; 
He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves ; 

And gains its door with a bound. 

But the vines are torn on its walls that leant, 

And all from the young shrubs there 
By struggling hands have the leaves been rent, 
And there hangs on the sassafras, broken and bent, 
One tress of the well-known hair. 

But where is she who, at this calm hour, 

Ever watched his coming to see ? 
She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower ; 
He calls — but he only hears on the flower 

The hum of the laden bee. 

It is not a time for idle grief, 

Nor a time for tears to flow ; 
The horror that freezes his limbs is brief — 
He grasps his war-axe and bow, and a sheaf 

Of darts made sharp for the foe. 

And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet 

Where he bore the maiden away ; 
And he darts on the fatal path more fleet 
Than the blast hurries the vapor and sleet 

O'er the wild November day. 

'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride 

Was stolen away from his door ; 
But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, 
And the grape is black on the cabin-side — 

And she smiles at his hearth once more. 



SUMMER WIND. 

But far in the pine-grove, dark and cold, 

Where the yellow leaf falls not, 
Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold, 
There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould, 

In the deepest gloom of the spot. 

And the Indian girls, that pass that way, 

Point out the ravisher's grave ; 
" And how soon to the bower she loved," they say, 
" Returned the maid that was borne away 

From Maquon, the fond and the brave." 



79 



SUMMER WIND. 

It is a sultry day ; the sun has drunk 
The dew that lay upon the morning grass ; 
There is no rustling in the lofty elm 
That canopies my dwelling, and its shade 
Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint 
And interrupted murmur of the bee, 
Settling on the sick flowers, and then again 
Instantly on the wing. The plants around 
Feel the two potent fervors : the tall maize 
Rolls up its long green leaves ; the clover droops 
Its tender foliage, and declines its blooms. 
But far in the fierce sunshine tower the hills, 
With all their growth of woods, silent and stern, 
As if the scorching heat and dazzling light 
Were but an element they loved. Bright clouds, 



8o 



POEMS. 




Motionless pillars of the brazen heaven — 
Their bases on the mountains — their white tops 
Shining in the far ether — fire the air 
With a reflected radiance, and make turn 
The gazer's eye away. For me, I lie 
Languidly in the shade, where the thick turf, 
Yet virgin from the kisses of the sun, 
Retains some freshness, and I woo the wind 
That still delays his coming. Why so slow, 
Gentle and voluble spirit of the air ? 
Oh, come and breathe upon the fainting earth 
Coolness and life ! Is it that in his caves 



AN INDIAN A T THE BURIAL-PL A CE OF HIS FA THERS. 81 

He hears me ? See, on yonder woody ridge, 
The pine is bending- his proud top, and now 
Among the nearer groves, chestnut and oak 
Are tossing their green boughs about. He comes ; 
Lo, where the grassy meadow runs in waves ! 
The deep distressful silence of the scene 
Breaks up with mingling of unnumbered sounds 
And universal motion. He is come, 
Shaking a shower of blossoms from the shrubs, 
And bearing on their fragrance ; and he brings 
Music of birds, and rustling of young boughs, . 
. And sound of swaying branches, and the voice 
Of distant waterfalls. All the green herbs 
Are stirring in his breath ; a thousand flowers, 
By the road-side and the borders of the brook, 
Nod gayly to each other ; glossy leaves 
Are twinkling in the sun, as if the dew 
Were on them yet, and silver waters break 
Into small waves and sparkle as he comes. 



AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE OF HIS 
FATHERS. 

It is the spot I came to seek — 

My father's ancient burial-place, 
Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak, 

Withdrew our wasted race. 
It is the spot — I know it well — 
Of which our old traditions tell. 
6 



82 POEMS. 



For here the upland bank sends out 
A ridge toward the river-side ; 

I know the shaggy hills about, 
The meadows smooth and wide, 

The plains, that, toward the southern sky, 

Fenced east and west by mountains lie. 

A white man, gazing on the scene, 
Would say a lovely spot was here, 

And praise the lawns, so fresh and green, 
Between the hills so sheer. 

I like it not — I would the plain 

Lay in its tall old groves again. 

The sheep are on the slopes around, 
The cattle in the meadows feed, 

And laborers turn the crumbling ground, 
Or drop the yellow seed, 

And prancing steeds, in trappings gay, 

Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way. 

Methinks it were a nobler sight 

To see these vales in woods arrayed, 

Their summits in the golden light, 
Their trunks in grateful shade, 

And herds of deer that bounding go 

O'er hills and prostrate trees below. 

And then to mark the lord of all, 
The forest hero, trained to wars, 

Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall, 
And seamed with glorious scars, 

Walk forth, amid his reign to dare 

The wolf, and grapple with the bear. 



AN INDIAN A T THE BURIAL-PL A CE OF HIS FA THERS. 83 




And laborers turn the crumbling ground. 
Or drop the yellow seed" 



84 POEMS. 



This bank, in which the dead were laid, 
Was sacred when its soil was ours ; 

Hither the silent Indian maid 

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers, 

And the gray chief and gifted seer 

Worshipped the god of thunders here. 

But now the wheat is green and high 
On clods that hid the warrior's breast, 

And scattered in the furrows lie 
The weapons of his rest ; 

And there, in the loose sand, is thrown 

Of his large arm the mouldering bone. 

Ah, little thought the strong and brave 
Who bore their lifeless chieftain forth — 

Or the young wife that* weeping gave 
Her first-born to the earth, 

That the pale race, who waste us now, 

Among their bones should guide the plough. 

They waste us — ay — like April snow 
In the warm noon, we shrink away ; 

And fast they follow, as we go 
Toward the setting day — 

Till they shall fill the land, and we 

Are driven into the Western sea. 

But I behold a fearful sign, 

To which the white men's eyes are blind ; 
Their race may vanish hence, like mine, 

And leave no trace behind, 
Save ruins o'er the region spread, 
And the white stones above the dead. 



SONG. 85 



Before these fields were shorn and tilled, 
Full to the brim our rivers flowed ; 

The melody of waters filled 
The fresh and boundless wood ; 

And torrents dashed and rivulets played, 

And fountains spouted in the shade. 

Those grateful sounds are heard no more, 
The springs are silent in the sun ; 

The rivers, by the blackened shore, 
With lessening current run ; 

The realm our tribes are crushed to get 

May be a barren desert yet. 



SONG. 



Dost thou idly ask to hear 

At what gentle seasons 
Nymphs relent, when lovers near 

Press the tenderest reasons ? 
Ah, they give their faith too oft 

To the careless wooer ; 
Maidens' hearts are always soft . 

Would that men's were truer I 

Woo the fair one when around 

Early birds are singing ; 
When, o'er all the fragrant ground, 

Early herbs are springing : 



86 



POEMS. 




Woo her when, with rosy blush, 
Summer eve is sinking." 



SONG. 87 

When the brookside, bank, and grove, 

All with blossoms laden, 
Shine with beauty, breathe of love, — 

Woo the timid maiden. 

Woo her when, with rosy blush, 

Summer eve is sinking ; 
When, on rills that softly gush, 

Stars are softly winking ; 

When through boughs that knit the bower 

Moonlight gleams are stealing ; 
Woo her, till the gentle hour 

Wake a gentler feeling. 

Woo her, when autumnal dyes 

Tinge the woody mountain ; 
When the dropping foliage lies 

In the weedy fountain ; 
Let the scene, that tells how fast 

Youth is passing over, 
Warn her, ere her bloom is past. 

To secure her lover. 

Woo her when the north winds call 

At the lattice nightly ; 
When, within the cheerful hall, 

Blaze the fagots brightly ; 
While the wintry tempest round 

Sweeps the landscape hoary, 
Sweeter in her ear shall sound 

Love's delightful story. 



88 POEMS. 



HYMN OF THE WALDENSES. 

Hear, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock 
Cry to thee, from the desert and the rock ; 
While those, who seek to slay thy children, hold 
Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold ; 
And the broad goodly lands, with pleasant airs 
That nurse the grape and wave the grain, are theirs. 

Yet better were this mountain wilderness, 
And this wild life of danger and distress — 
Watchings by night and perilous flight by day, 
And meetings in the depths of earth to pray — 
Better, far better, than to kneel with them, 
And pay the impious rite thy laws condemn. 

Thou, Lord, dost hold the thunder ; the firm land 
Tosses in billows when it feels thy hand ; 
Thou dashest nation against nation, then 
Stillest the angry world to peace again. 
Oh, touch their stony hearts who hunt thy sons — 
The murderers of our wives and little ones. 

Yet, mighty God, yet shall thy frown look forth 
Unveiled, and terribly shall shake the earth. 
Then the foul power of priestly sin and all 
Its long-upheld idolatries shall fall. 
Thou shalt raise up the trampled and oppressed, 
And thy delivered saints shall dwell in rest. 



MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 89 



MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 

Thou who wouldst see the lovely and the wild 
Mingled in harmony on Nature's face, 
Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot 
Fail not with weariness, for on their tops 
The beauty and the majesty of earth, 
Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget 
The steep and toilsome way. There, as thou stand 'st, 
The haunts of men below thee, and around 
The mountain-summits, thy expanding heart 
Shall feel a kindred with that loftier world 
To which thou art translated, and partake 
The enlargement of thy vision. Thou shalt look 
Upon the green and rolling forest-tops, 
And down into the secrets of the glens, 
And streams that with their bordering thickets strive 
To hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, at once, 
Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds, 
And swarming roads, and there on solitudes 
That only hear the torrent, and the wind, 
And eagle's shriek. There is a precipice 
That seems a fragment of some mighty wall, 
Built by the hand that fashioned the old world, 
To separate its nations, and thrown down 
When the flood drowned them. To the north, a path 
Conducts you up the narrow battlement. 
Steep is the western side, shaggy and wild 
With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint, 
And many a hanging crag. But, to the east, 
Sheer to the vale go down the bare old cliffs — 
Huge pillars, that in middle heaven upbear 



9o 



POEMS. 




wf 



Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark 

With moss, the growth of centuries, and there 

Of chalky whiteness where the thunderbolt 

Has splintered them. It is a fearful thing 

To stand upon the beetling verge, and see 

Where storm and lightning, from that huge gray wall, 

Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at the base 

Dashed them in fragments, and to lay thine ear 



MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 91 

Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound 

Of winds, that struggle with the woods below, 

Come up like ocean-murmurs. But the scene 

Is lovely round ; a beautiful river there 

Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads, 

The paradise he made unto himself, 

Mining the soil for ages. On each side 

The fields swell upward to the hills ; beyond, 

Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise 

The mountain-columns with which earth props heaven. 

There is a tale about these reverend rocks, 
A sad tradition of unhappy love, 
And sorrows borne and ended, long ago, 
When over these fair vales the savage sought 
His game in the thick woods. There was a maid 
The fairest of the Indian maids, bright-eyed, 
With wealth of raven tresses, a light form, 
And a gay heart. About her cabin-door 
The wide old woods resounded with her song 
And fairy laughter all the summer day. 
She loved her cousin ; such a love was deemed, 
By the morality of those stern tribes, 
Incestuous, and she struggled hard and long 
Against her love, and reasoned with her heart, 
As simple Indian maiden might. In vain. 
Then her eye lost its lustre, and her step 
Its lightness, and the gray-haired men that passed 
Her dwelling, wondered that they heard no more 
The accustomed song and laugh of her, whose looks 
Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said, 
Upon the Winter of their age. She went 
To weep where no eye saw, and was not found 
When all the merry girls were met to dance. 



92 POEMS. 

And all the hunters of the tribe were out ; 
Nor when they gathered from the rustling husk 
The shining ear ; nor when, by the river's side, 
They pulled the grape and startled the wild shades 
With sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed Indian dames 
Would whisper to each other, as they saw 
Her wasting form, and say, The girl will die. 

One day into the bosom of a friend, 
A playmate of her young and innocent years, 
She poured her griefs. " Thou know'st, and thou alone, 
She said, "for I have told thee, all my love, 
And guilt, and sorrow. I am sick of life. 
All night I weep in darkness, and the morn 
Glares on me. as upon a thing accursed, 
That has no business on the earth. I hate 
The pastimes and the pleasant toils that once 
I loved ; the cheerful voices of my friends 
Sound in my ear like mockings, and, at night, 
In dreams, my mother, from the land of souls, 
Calls me and chides me. All that look on me 
Do seem to know my shame ; I cannot bear 
Their eyes ; I cannot from my heart root out 
The love that wrings it so, and I must die." 

It was a summer morning, and they went 
To this old precipice. About the cliffs 
Lay garlands, ears of maize, and shaggy skins 
Of wolf and bear, the offerings of the tribe 
Here made to the Great Spirit, for they deemed, 
Like worshippers of the elder time, that God 
Doth walk on the high places and affect 
The earth-o'erlooking mountains. She had on 
The ornaments with which her father loved 



. 



MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 93 

To deck the beauty of his bright-eyed girl, 

And bade her wear when stranger warriors came 

To be his guests. Here the friends sat them down, 

And sang, all day, old songs of love and death, 

And decked the poor wan victim's hair with flowers, 

And prayed that safe and swift might be her way 

To the calm world of sunshine, where no grief 

Makes the heart heavy and the eyelids red. 

Beautiful lay the region of her tribe 

Below her — waters resting in the embrace 

Of the wide forest, and maize-planted glades 

Opening amid the leafy wilderness. 

She gazed upon it long, and at the sight 

Of her own village peeping through the trees, 

And her own dwelling, and the cabin-roof 

Of him she loved with an unlawful love, 

And came to die for, a warm gush of tears 

Ran from her eyes. But when the sun grew low 

And the hill-shadows long, she threw herself 

From the steep rock and perished. There was scooped, 

Upon the mountain's southern slope, a grave ; 

And there they laid her, in the very garb 

With which the maiden decked herself for death, 

With the same withering wild-flowers in her hair. 

And o'er the mould that covered her, the tribe 

Built up a simple monument, a cone 

Of small loose stones. Thenceforward all who passed, 

Hunter, and dame, and virgin, laid a stone 

In silence on the pile. It stands there yet. 

And Indians from the distant West, who come 

To visit where their fathers' bones are laid, 

Yet tell the sorrowful tale, and to this day 

The mountain where the hapless maiden died 

Is called the Mountain of the Monument. 






94 POEMS. 



AFTER A TEMPEST. 

The day had been a day of wind and storm, 
The wind was laid, the storm was overpast, 
And stooping from the zenith, bright and warm, 
Shone the great sun on the wide earth at last. 
I stood upon the upland slope, and cast 
Mine eye upon a broad and beauteous scene, 
Where the vast plain lay girt by mountains vast, 
And hills o'er hills lifted their heads of green, 
With pleasant vales scooped out and villages between. 

The rain-drops glistened on the trees around, 
Whose shadows on the tall grass were not stirred, 
Save when a shower of diamonds, to the ground, 
Was shaken by the flight of startled bird ; 
For birds were warbling round, and bees were heard 
About the flowers ; the cheerful rivulet sung 
And gossiped, as he hastened oceanward ; 
To the gray oak the squirrel, chiding, clung, 
And chirping from the ground the grasshopper upsprung. 

And from beneath the leaves that kept them dry 
Flew many a glittering insect here and there, 
And darted up and down the butterfly, 
That seemed a living blossom of the air, 
The flocks came scattering from the thicket, where 
The violent rain had pent them ; in the way 
Strolled groups of damsels frolicsome and fair ; 
The farmer swung the scythe or turned the hay, 
And 'twixt the heavy swaths his children were at play. 



AFTER A TEMPEST. 

It was a scene of peace — and, like a spell, 
Did that .serene and golden sunlight fall 
Upon the motionless wood that clothed the fell, 
And precipice upspringing like a wall, 
And glassy river and white waterfall, 
And happy living things that trod the bright 
And beauteous scene ; while far beyond them all, 
On many a lovely valley, out of sight, 
Was poured from the blue heavens the same soft golden light. 

I looked, and thought the quiet of the scene 
An emblem of the peace that yet shall be, 
When o'er earth's continents, and isles between, 
The noise of war shall cease from sea to sea, 
And married nations dwell in harmony ; 
When millions, crouching in the dust to one, 
No more shall beg their lives on bended knee, 
Nor the black stake be dressed, nor in the sun 
The o'erlabored captive toil, and wish his life were done. 

Too long, at clash of arms amid her bowers 
And pools of blood, the earth has stood aghast, 
The fair earth, that should only blush with flowers 
And ruddy fruits ; but not for aye can last 
The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past. 
Lo, the clouds roll away — they break — they fly, 
And, like the glorious light of summer, cast 
O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, 
On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie. 



95 



96 POEMS. 



AUTUMN WOODS. 

Ere, in the northern gale, 
The summer tresses of the trees are gone, 
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale, 

Have put their glory on. 

The mountains that infold, 
In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round, 
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, 

That guard the enchanted ground. 

I roam the woods that crown 
The upland, where the mingled splendors glow, 
Where the gay company of trees look down 

On the green fields below. 

My steps are not alone 
In these bright walks ; the sweet southwest, at play 
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown 

Along the winding way. 

And far in heaven, the while, 
The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, 
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile — 

The sweetest of the year. 

Where now the solemn shade, 
Verdure and gloom where many branches meet ; 
So grateful, when the noon of summer made 

The valleys sick with heat ? 



AUTUMN WOODS. 



97 




Let in through all the trees 
Come the strange rays ; the forest depths are bright 
Their sunny colored foliage, in the breeze, 

Twinkles, like beams of light. 



The rivulet, late unseen, 
Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, 
Shines with the image of its golden screen, 

And glimmerings of the sun. 

7 



98 POEMS. 



But 'neath yon crimson tree, 
Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, 
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, 

Her blush of maiden shame. 

O Autumn ! why so soon 
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad, 
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, 

And leave thee wild and sad ! 

Ah ! 'twere a lot too blest 
Forever in thy colored shades to stray ; 
Amid the kisses of the soft southwest 

To rove and dream for aye ; 

And leave the vain low strife 
That makes men mad — the tug for wealth and power- 
The passions and the cares that wither life, 

And waste its little hour. 



MUTATION. 



They talk of short-lived pleasure — be it so — 

Pain dies as quickly : stern, hard-featured Pain 
Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go. 

The fiercest agonies have shortest reign ; 

And after dreams of horror, comes again 
The welcome morning with its rays of peace. 

Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain, 
Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease : 



NOVEMBER. 

Remorse is virtue's root ; its fair increase 
Are fruits of innocence and blessedness : 

Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still release 

His young- limbs from the chains that round him press. 

Weep not that the world changes — did it keep 

A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep. 



99 



NOVEMBER. 



Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun ! 

One mellow smile through the soft vapory air, 
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run, 

Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare. 
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees, 

And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, 
And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, 

Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last. 
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee 

Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, 
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, 

And man delight to linger in thy ray. 
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear 
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air. 



ioo POEMS. 



SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON. 

I buckle to my slender side 

The pistol and the scimitar, 
And in my maiden flower and pride 

Am come to share the tasks of war. 
And yonder stands my fiery steed, 

That paws the ground and neighs to go, 
My charger of the Arab breed — 

I took him from the routed foe. 

My mirror is the mountain-spring, 

At which I dress my ruffled hair ; 
My dimmed and dusty arms I bring, 

And wash away the blood-stain there. 
Why should I guard from wind and sun 

This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled ? 
It was for one — oh, only one — 

I kept its bloom, and he is dead. 

But they who slew him — unaware 

Of coward murderers lurking nigh — 
And left him to the fowls of air, ► 

Are yet alive — and they must die ! 
They slew him — and my virgin years 

Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now, 
And many an Othman dame, in tears, 

Shall rue the Grecian maiden's vow. 

I touched the lute in better days, 
I led in dance the joyous band ; 

Ah ! they may move to mirthful lays 
Whose hands can touch a lover's hand. 



TO A CLOUD. ioi 

The march of hosts that haste to meet 

Seems gayer than the dance to me ; 
The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet 

As the fierce shout of victory. 



TO A CLOUD. 

Beautiful cloud ! with folds so soft and fair, 

Swimming in the pure quiet air ! 
Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below 

Thy shadow o'er the vale moves slow ; 
Where, midst their labor, pause the reaper train, 

As cool it comes along the grain. 
Beautiful cloud ! I would I were with thee 

In thy calm way o'er land and sea ; 
To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look 

On Earth as on an open book ; 
On streams that tie her realms with silver bands, 

And the long ways that seam her lands ; 
And hear her humming cities, and the sound 

Of the great ocean breaking round. 
Ay — I would sail, upon thy air-borne car, 

To blooming regions distant far, 
To where the sun of Andalusia shines 

On his own olive-groves and vines, 
Or the soft lights of Italy's clear sky 

In smiles upon her ruins lie. 

But I would woo the winds to let us rest 
O'er Greece, long fettered and oppressed, 



102 POEMS. 

Whose sons at length have heard the call that comes 

From the old battle-fields and tombs, 
And risen, and drawn the sword, and on the foe 

Have dealt the swift and desperate blow, 
And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke 

Has touched its chains, and they are broke. 
Ay, we would linger, till the sunset there 

Should come, to purple all the air, 
And thou reflect upon the sacred ground 

The ruddy radiance streaming round. 

Bright meteor ! for the summer noontide- made ! 

Thy peerless beauty yet shall fade. 
The sun, that fills with light each glistening fold, 

Shall set, and leave thee dark and cold : 
The blast shall rend thy skirts, or thou mayst frown 

In the dark heaven when storms come down ; 
And weep in rain, till man's inquiring eye 

Miss thee, forever, from the sky. 



THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. 

When Spring, to woods and wastes around. 

Brought bloom and joy again, 
The murdered traveller's bones were found, 

Far down a narrow glen. 

The fragrant birch, above him, hung 

Her tassels in the sky : 
And many a vernal blossom sprung, 

And nodded careless by. 



THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. 



103 




The red-bird warbled, as he wrought 
His hanging nest o'erhead, 

And fearless, near the fatal spot, 
Her young the partridge led. 



104 POEMS. 

But there was weeping far away, 

And gentle eyes, for him, 
With watching many an anxious day, 

Were sorrowful and dim. 

They little knew, who loved him so, 

The fearful death he met, 
When shouting o'er the desert snow, 

Unarmed, and hard beset ; — 

Nor how, when round the frosty pole 
The northern dawn was red, 

The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole 
To banquet on the dead ; — 

Nor how, when strangers found his bones, 
They dressed the hasty bier, 

And marked his grave with nameless stones, 
Unmoistened by a tear. 

But long they looked, and feared, and wept, 

Within his distant home ; 
And dreamed, and started as they slept, 

For joy that he was come. 

Long, long they looked — but never spied 

His welcome step again, 
Nor knew the fearful death he died 

Far down that narrow glen. 



HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. 



105 






HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. 



The sad and solemn night 
Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires ; 

The glorious host of light 
Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires ; 
All through her silent watches, gliding slow, 
Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go. 



io6 POEMS. 

Day, too, hath many a star 
To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they : 

Through the blue fields afar, 
Unseen, they follow in his flaming way : 
Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, 
Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. 

And thou dost see them rise, 
Star of the Pole ! and thou dost see them set. 

Alone, in thy cold skies, 
Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet, 
Nor join' st the dances of that glittering train, 
Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main. 

There, at morn's rosy birth, 
Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air, 

And eve, that round the earth 
Chases the day, beholds thee watching there ; 
There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls 
The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls. 

Alike, beneath thine eye, 
The deeds of darkness and of light are done ; 

High toward the starlit sky 
Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun, 
The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud, 
And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud. 

On thy unaltering blaze 
The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost, 

Fixes his steady gaze, 
And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast ; 
And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, 
Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right. 



THE LAPSE OF TIME. 107 

And, therefore, bards of old, 
Sages and hermits of the solemn wood, 

Did in thy beams behold 
A beauteous type of that unchanging good, 
That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray 
The voyager of time should shape his heedful way. 



THE LAPSE OF TIME. 

Lament who will, in fruitless tears, 

The speed with which our moments fly ; 

I sigh not over vanished years, 

But watch the years that hasten by. 

Look, how they come — a mingled crowd 
Of bright and dark, but rapid days ; 

Beneath them, like a summer cloud, 
The wide world changes as I gaze. 

What ! grieve that time has brought so soon 
The sober age of manhood on ! 

As idly might I weep, at noon, 

To see the blush of morning gone. 

Could I give up the hopes that glow 

In prospect like Elysian isles ; 
And let the cheerful future go, 

With all her promises and smiles ? 



io8 POEMS. 



The future ! — cruel were the power 

Whose doom would tear thee from my heart 
Thou sweetener of the present hour ! 

We cannot — no — we will not part. 

Oh, leave me, still, the rapid flight 

That makes the changing seasons gay, 

The grateful speed that brings the night, 
The swift and glad return of day ; 

The months that touch, with added grace, 

This little prattler at my knee, 
In whose arch eye and speaking face 

New meaning every hour I see ; 

The years, that o'er each sister land 
Shall lift the country of my birth, 

And nurse her strength, till she shall stand 
The pride and pattern of the earth : 

Till younger commonwealths, for aid, 
Shall cling about her ample robe, 

And from her frown shall shrink afraid 
The crowned oppressors of the globe. 

True — time will seam and blanch my brow — 

Well — I shall sit with aged men, 
And my good glass will tell me how 

A grizzly beard becomes me then. 

And then, should no dishonor lie 

Upon my head, when I am gray, 
Love yet shall watch my fading eye, 

And smooth the path of my decay. 



SONG OF THE STARS, 109 

Then haste thee, Time — 'tis kindness all 

That speeds thy winged feet so fast : 
Thy pleasures stay not till they pall, 

And all thy pains are quickly past. 

Thou fliest and bear'st away our woes, 

And as thy shadowy train depart, 
The memory of sorrow grows 

A lighter burden on the heart. 



SONG OF THE STARS. 

When the radiant morn of creation broke, 

And the world in the smile of God awoke, 

And the empty realms of darkness and death 

Were moved through their depths by his mighty breath, 

And orbs of beauty and spheres of flame 

From the void abyss by myriads came — 

In the joy of youth as they darted away, 

Through the widening wastes of space to play, 

Their silver voices in chorus rang, 

And this was the song the bright ones sang : 

" Away, away, through the wide, wide sky, 

The fair blue fields that before us lie — 

Each sun with the worlds that round him roll, 

Each planet, poised on her turning pole ; 

With her isles of green, and her clouds of white, 

And her waters that lie like fluid light. 



1IO POEMS. 

" For the source of glory uncovers his face, 
And the brightness o'erflows unbounded space, 
And we drink as we go the luminous tides 
In our ruddy air and our blooming sides : 
Lo, yonder the living splendors play ; 
Away, on our joyous path, away ! 

" Look, look, through our glittering ranks afar, 

In the infinite azure, star after star, 

How they brighten and bloom as they swiftly pass ! 

How the verdure runs o'er each rolling mass ! 

And the path of the gentle winds is seen, 

Where the small waves dance, and the young woods lean. 

" And see, where the brighter day-beams pour, 
How the rainbows hang in the sunny shower ; 
And the morn and eve, with their pomp of hues, 
Shift o'er the bright planets and shed their dews ; 
And 'twixt them both, o'er the teeming ground, 
With her shadowy cone the night goes round ! 

" Away, away ! in our blossoming bowers, 
In the soft air wrapping these spheres of ours, 
In the seas and fountains that shine with morn, 
See, Love is brooding, and Life is born, 
And breathing myriads are breaking from night, 
To rejoice, like us, in motion and light. 

" Glide on in your beauty, ye youthful spheres, 

To weave the dance that measures the years ; 

Glide on, in the glory and gladness sent 

To the farthest wall of the firmament — 

The boundless visible smile of Him 

To the veil of whose brow y^our lamps are dim." 



A FOREST HYMN. 



Ill 




A FOREST HYMN. 



The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned 
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 
And spread the roof above them — ere he framed 
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
The sound of anthems ; in the darkling wood, 



112 POEMS. 

Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down, 

And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 

And supplication. For his simple heart 

Might not resist the sacred influences 

Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, 

And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven 

Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 

Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 

All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 

His spirit with the thought of boundless power 

And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 

Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 

God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 

Only among the crowd, and under roofs 

That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, at least, 

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 

Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find 

Acceptance in His ear. 

Father, thy hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns, thou 
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down 
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose 
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, 
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, 
And shot toward heaven. The century-living crow 
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 
Among their branches, till, at last, they stood, 
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold 
Cummunion with his Maker. These dim vaults, 
These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride 
Report not. No fantastic carvings show 
The boast of our vain race to change the form 



A FOREST HYMN. 113 

Of thy fair works. But thou art here — thou fill'st 

The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds 

That run along the summit of these trees 

In music ; thou art in the cooler breath 

That from the inmost darkness of the place 

Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground, 

The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. 

Here is continual worship ; — Nature, here, 

In the tranquillity that thou dost love, 

Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, 

From perch to perch, the solitary bird 

Passes ; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, 

Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots 

Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale 

Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left 

Thyself without a witness, in these shades, 

Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace, 

Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak — 

By whose immovable stem I stand and seem 

Almost annihilated — not a prince, 

In all that proud old world beyond the deep, 

E'er wore his crown as loftily as he 

Wears the green coronal of leaves with which 

Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root 

Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare 

Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, 

With scented breath and look so like a smile, 

Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, 

An emanation of the indwelling Life, 

A visible token of the upholding Love, 

That are the soul of this great universe. 

My heart is awed within me when I think 
Of the great miracle that still goes on, 



ii4 



POEMS. 



A--#^ 




™w?*$imm 



" . . . . yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, 
Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots 
Of half the mighty forest." 



A FOREST HYMN'. 115 

In silence, round me — the perpetual work 
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 
Forever. Written on thy works I read 
The lesson of thy own eternity. 
Lo ! all grow old and die — but see again, 
How on the faltering footsteps of decay 
Youth presses — ever-gay and beautiful youth 
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees 
Wave not less proudly that their ancestors 
Moulder beneath them. Oh, there is not lost 
One of earth's charms : upon her bosom yet, 
After the flight of untold centuries, 
The freshness of her far beginning lies 
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate 
Of his arch-enemy Death — yea, seats himself 
Upon the tyrant's throne — the sepulchre, 
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe 
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth 
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. 

There have been holy men who hid themselves 

Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave 

Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived 

The generation born with them, nor seemed 

Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks 

Around them ; — and there have been holy men 

Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. 

But let me often to these solitudes 

Retire, and in thy presence reassure 

My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, 

The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink 

And tremble and are still. O God ! when thou 

Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire 

The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, 



u6 POEMS. 

With all the waters of the firmament, 
The swift dark whirlwind that uproots the woods 
And drowns the villages ; when, at thy call, 
Uprises the great deep and throws himself 
Upon the continent, and overwhelms 
Its cities — who forgets not, at the sight 
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, 
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by ? 
Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face 
Spare me and mine, nor let us need the wrath 
Of the mad, unchained elements to teach 
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, 
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, 
And to the beautiful order of thy works 
Learn to conform the order of our lives. 



"OH, FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS." 

Oh, fairest of the rural maids ! 
Thy birth was in the forest shades ; 
Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky, 
Were all that met thine infant eye. 

Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child, 
Were ever in the sylvan wild ; 
And all the beauty of the place 
Is in thy heart and on thy face. 

The twilight of the trees and rocks 
Is in the light shade of thy locks ; 
Thy step is as the wind, that weaves 
Its playful way among the leaves. 



OH, FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS." 117 




Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene 
And silent waters heaven is seen ; 
Their lashes are the herbs that look 
On their young figures in the brook. 

The forest depths, by foot unpressed, 
Are not more sinless than thy breast ; 
The holy peace, that fills the air 
Of those calm solitudes, is there. 



n8 POEMS. 



"I BROKE THE SPELL THAT HELD ME LONG.' 

I BROKE the spell that held me long, 

The dear, dear witchery of song. 

I said, the poet's idle lore 

Shall waste my prime of years no more, 

For Poetry, though heavenly born, 

Consorts with poverty and scorn. 

I broke the spell — nor deemed its' power 

Could fetter me another hour. 

Ah, thoughtless ! how could I forget 

Its causes were around me yet ? 

For wheresoe'er I looked, the while, 

Was Nature's. everlasting smile. 

Still came and lingered on my sight 

Of flowers and streams the bloom and light, 

And glory of the stars and sun ; 

And these and poetry are one. 

They, ere the world had held me long, 

Recalled me to the love of song. 



JUNE. 



I GAZED upon the glorious sky 

And the green mountains round, 

And thought that when I came to lie 
At rest within the ground, 



JUNE. 119 



'Twere pleasant, that in flowery June, 
When brooks send up a cheerful tune, 

And groves a joyous sound, 
The sexton's hand, my grave to make, 
The rich, green mountain-turf should break. 

A cell within the frozen mould, 

A coffin borne through sleet, 
And icy clods above it rolled, 

While fierce the tempests beat — 
Away ! — I will not think of these — 
Blue be the sky and soft the breeze, 

Earth green beneath the feet, 
And be the damp mould gently pressed 
Into my narrow place of rest. 

There through the long, long summer hours, 

The golden light should lie, 
And thick young herbs and groups of flowers 

Stand in their beauty by. 
The oriole should build and tell 
His love-tale close beside my cell ; 

The idle butterfly 
Should rest him there, and there be heard 
The housewife bee and humming-bird. 

And what if cheerful shouts at noon 

. Come, from the village sent, 
Or song of maids, beneath the moon 

With fairy laughter blent ? 
And what if, in the evening light, 
Betrothed lovers walk in sight 

Of my low monument ? 
I would the lovely scene around 
Might know no sadder sight nor sound. 



120 



POEMS. 




I know that I no more should see 

The season's glorious show, 
Nor would its brightness shine for me, 

Nor its wild music flow ; 
But if, around my place of sleep, 
The friends I love should come to weep, 

They might not haste to go. 
Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom 
Should keep them lingering by my tomb. 



These to their softened hearts should bear 
The thought of what has been, 

And speak of one who cannot share 
The gladness of the scene ; 



A SONG OF PITCAIRNS ISLAND. 121 

Whose part, in all the pomp that fills 
The circuit of the summer hills, 

Is that his grave is green ; 
And deeply would their hearts rejoice 
To hear again his living voice. 



A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND. 

Come, take our boy, and we will go 

Before our cabin-door ; 
The winds shall bring us, as they blow, 

The murmurs of the shore ; 
And we will kiss his young blue eyes, 
And I will sing him, as he lies, 

Songs that were made of yore : 
I'll sing, in his delighted ear, 
The island lays thou lov'st to hear, 

And thou, while stammering I repeat, 
Thy country's tongue shalt teach ; 
'Tis not so soft, but far more sweet 

Than my own native speech : 
For thou no other tongue didst know, 
When, scarcely twenty moons ago, 

Upon Tahete's beach, 
Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine, 
With many a speaking look and sign. 

I knew thy meaning — thou didst praise 
My eyes, my locks of jet ; 



122 POEMS. 



Ah ! well for me they won thy gaze, 
But thine were fairer yet ! 

I'm glad to see my infant wear 

Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair, 
And when my sight is met 

By his white brow and blooming cheek, 

I feel a joy I cannot speak. 

Come talk of Europe's maids with me, 
Whose necks and cheeks, they tell, 
Outshine the beauty of the sea, 

White foam and crimson shell. 
I'll shape like theirs my simple dress, 
And bind like them each jetty tress, 

A sight to please thee well : 
And for my dusky brow will braid 
A bonnet like an English maid. 

Come, for the soft low sunlight calls, 

We lose the pleasant hours ; 
'Tis lovelier than these cottage-walls — 

That seat among the flowers. 
And I will learn of thee a prayer, 
To Him who gave a home so fair, 

A lot so blest as ours — 
The God who made, for thee and me, 
This sweet lone isle amid the sea. 



THE FIRMAMENT. 



123 




3 




THE FIRMAMENT. 



Ay ! gloriously thou standest there, 
Beautiful, boundless firmament ! 

That, swelling wide o'er earth and air, 
And round the horizon bent, 

With thy bright vault, and sapphire wall, 

Dost overhang and circle all. 



124 



POEMS. 

Far, far below thee, tall gray trees 

Arise, and piles built up of old, 
And hills, whose ancient summits freeze 

In the fierce light and cold. 
The eagle soars his utmost height, 
Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight. 

Thou hast thy frowns — with thee on high 
The storm has made his airy seat, 

Beyond that soft blue curtain lie 
His stores of hail and sleet. 

Thence the consuming lightnings break, 

There the strong hurricanes awake. 

Yet art thou prodigal of smiles- 
Smiles, sweeter than thy frowns are stern ; 

Earth sends, from all her thousand isles, 
A shout at their return. 

The glory that comes down from thee, 

Bathes, in deep joy, the land and sea. 

The sun, the gorgeous sun is thine, 

The pomp that brings and shuts the day, 

The clouds that round him change and shine, 
The airs that fan his way. 

Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there 

The meek moon walks the silent air. 

The sunny Italy may boast 

The beauteous tints that flush her skies, 
And lovely, round the Grecian coast, 

May thy blue pillars rise : 
I only know how fair they stand 
Around my own beloved land. 



/ CANNOT FORGET WITH WHAT FERVID DEVOTION:' 125 

And they are fair — a charm is theirs, 

That earth, the proud green earth, has not, 

With all the forms, and hues, and airs, 
That haunt her sweetest spot. 

We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere, 

And read of Heaven's eternal year. 

Oh, when, amid the throng of men, 
The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, 

How willingly we turn us then 
Away from this cold earth, 

And look into thy azure breast, 

For seats of innocence and rest ! 



"I CANNOT FORGET WITH WHAT FERVID 
DEVOTION." 

I cannot forget with what fervid devotion 

I worshipped the visions of verse and of fame ; 

Each gaze at the glories of earth, sky, and ocean, 
To my kindled emotions, was wind over flame. 

And deep were my musings in life's early blossom, 

'Mid the twilight of mountain-groves wandering long ; 

How thrilled my young veins, and how throbbed my full bosom, 
When o'er me descended the spirit of song ! 

'Mong the deep-cloven fells that for ages had listened 
To the rush of the pebble-paved river between, 

Where the kingfisher screamed and gray precipice glistened, 
All breathless with awe have I gazed on the scene ; 



126 



POEMS. 



Till I felt the dark power o'er my reveries stealing, 
From the gloom of the thickets that over me hung, 

And the thoughts that awoke, in that rapture of feeling, 
Were formed into verse as they rose to my tongue. 

Bright visions ! I mixed with the world, and ye faded, 
No longer your pure rural worshipper now ; 

In the haunts your continual presence pervaded, 
Ye shrink from the signet of care on my brow. 




TO A MOSQUITO. 127 

In the old mossy groves on the breast of the mountain, 
In deep lonely glens where the waters complain, 

By the shade of the rock, by the gush of the fountain, 
I seek your loved footsteps, but seek them in vain. 

Oh, leave not forlorn and forever forsaken, 

Your pupil and victim to life and its tears ! 
But sometimes return, and in mercy awaken 

The glories ye showed to his earlier years. 



TO A MOSQUITO. 

Fair insect ! that, with threadlike legs spread out, 
And blood-extracting bill and filmy wing, 

Dost murmur, as thou slowly sail'st about, 
In pitiless ears full many a plaintive thing, 

And tell how little our large veins would bleed, 

Would we but yield them to thy bitter need. 

Unwillingly, I own, and, what is worse, 
Full angrily men hearken to thy plaint ; 

Thou gettest many a brush, and many a curse, 
For saying thou art gaunt, and starved, and faint ; 

Even the old beggar, while he asks for food, 

Would kill thee, hapless stranger, if he could. 

I call thee stranger, for the town, I ween, 
Has not the honor of so proud a birth — 

Thou com'st from Jersey meadows, fresh and green, 
The offspring of the gods, though born on earth ; 



128 POEMS. 

For Titan was thy sire, and fair was she, 
The ocean-nymph that nursed thy infancy. 

Beneath the rushes was thy cradle swung, 

And when at length thy gauzy wings grew strong, 

Abroad to gentle airs their folds were flung, 
Rose in the sky and bore thee soft along ; 

The south wind breathed to waft thee on thy way, 

And danced and shone beneath the billowy bay. 

Calm rose afar the city spires, and thence 

Came the deep murmur of its throng of men, 

And as its grateful odors met thy sense, 

They seemed the perfumes of thy native fen. 

Fair lay its crowded streets, and at the sight 

Thy tiny song grew shriller with delight. 

At length thy pinions fluttered in Broadway — 

Ah ! there were fairy steps, and white necks kissed 

By wanton airs, and eyes whose killing ray 

Shone through the snowy veils like stars through mist 

And fresh as morn, on many a cheek and chin, 

Bloomed the bright blood through the transparent skin. 

Sure these were sights to touch an anchorite ! 

What ! do I hear thy slender voice complain ? 
Thou w^ailest when I talk of beauty's light, 

As if it brought the memory of pain ; 
Thou art a wayward being — w r ell — come near, 
And pour thy tale of sorrow T in my ear. 

What sayst thou — slanderer ! — rouge makes thee sick ? 

And China bloom at best is sorry food ? 
And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick, 

Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood ? 



TO A MOSQUITO. 



12.^ 



Go ! 'twas a just reward that met thy crime — 
But shun the sacrilege another time. 

That bloom was made to look at, not to touch ; 

To worship, not approach, that radiant white ; 
And well might sudden vengeance light on such 

As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite. 
Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and admired, 
Murmured thy adoration, and retired. 

Thou'rt welcome to the town ; but why come here 
To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee ? 

Alas ! the little blood I have is dear, 

And thin will be the banquet drawn from me. 

Look round — the pale-eyed sisters in my cell, 

Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell. 



Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood 
Enriched by generous wine and costly meat ; 

On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud, 
Fix thy light pump and press thy freckled feet. 

Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls, 

The oyster breeds, and the green turtle sprawls. 

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows 
To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now 

The ruddy cheek and now the ruddier nose 

Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow. 

And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings, 

No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings. 



i 3 o POEMS. 



LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY. 



I stand upon my native hills again, 

Broad, round, and green, that in the summer sky 
With garniture of waving grass and grain, 

Orchards, and beechen forests, basking lie, 
While deep the sunless, glens are scooped between, 
Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen. 



A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near, 
And ever-restless feet of one, who, now, 

Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year ; 
There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow 

As breaks the varied scene upon her sight, 

Upheaved and spread in verdure and in light. 

For I have taught her, with delighted eye, 
To gaze upon the mountains — to behold, 

With deep affection, the pure ample sky 
And clouds along its blue abysses rolled, 

To love the song of waters, and to hear 

The melody of winds with charmed ear. 

Here have I 'scaped the city's stifling heat, 
Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air, 

And, where the season's milder fervors beat, 
And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear 

The song of bird and sound of running stream, 

Am come awhile to wander and to dream. 



LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY, 



131 




132 POEMS. 

Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun ! thou canst not wake, 
In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen. 

The maize-leaf and the maple-bough but take, 
From thy strong heats, a deeper, glossier green. 

The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray, 

Sweeps the blue steams of pestilence away. 

The mountain wind ! most spiritual thing of all 
The wide earth knows ; when, in the sultry time, 

He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall, 
He seems the breath of a celestial clime ! 

As if from heaven's wide-open gates did flow 

Health and refreshment on the world below. 






THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 



The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere ; 

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead ; 

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread ; 

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, 

And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? 
Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers 
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. 



THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 



133 




". . . . the fair young flowers, tJiat lately sprang and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?" 



134 POEMS. 

The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain 
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, 

And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow ; 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, 

And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, 

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, 

And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen 

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, 

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home ; 

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, 

And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, 

The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, 

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, 
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. 
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. ) 



ROMERO. 



When freedom, from the land of Spain, 
By Spain's degenerate sons was driven, 

Who gave their willing limbs again 
To wear the chain so lately riven ; 



ROMERO. 135 



Romero broke the sword he wore — 

" Go, faithful brand," the warrior said, 
" Go, undishonored, never more 

The blood of man shall make thee red. 

I grieve for that already shed ; 
And I am sick at heart to know 
That faithful friend and noble foe 
Have only bled to make more strong 
The yoke that Spain has worn so long. 
Wear it who will, in abject fear— 

I wear it not who have been free ; 
The perjured Ferdinand shall hear 

No oath of loyalty from me." 
Then, hunted by the hounds of power, 

Romero chose a safe retreat, 
Where bleak Nevada's summits tower 

Above the beauty at their feet. 
There once, when on his cabin lay 
The crimson light of setting day, 
When, even on the mountain's breast, 
The chainless winds were all at rest, 
And he could hear the river's flow 
From the calm paradise below ; 
Warmed with his former fires again 
He framed this rude but solemn strain : 



" Here will I make my home — for here at least I see, 
Upon this wild Sierra's side, the steps of Liberty ; 
Where the locust chirps unscared beneath the unpruned lime, 
And the merry bee doth hide from man the spoil of the mountain-thyme ; 
Where the pure winds come and go, and the wild-vine strays at will, 
An outcast from the haunts of men, she dwells with Nature still. 



36 POEMS. 



" I see the valleys, Spain ! where thy mighty rivers run, 
And the hills that lift thy harvests and vineyards to the sun, 
And the flocks that drink thy brooks and sprinkle all the green, 
Where lie thy plains, with sheep-walks seamed, and olive-shades between 
I see thy fig-trees bask, with the fair pomegranate near, 
And the fragrance of thy lemon-groves can almost reach me here. 



in. 



" Fair — fair — but fallen Spain ! 'tis with a swelling heart 
That I think on all thou mightst have been, and look at what thou art ; 
But the strife is over now, and all the good and brave, 
That would have raised thee up, are gone, to exile or the grave. 
Thy fleeces are for monks, thy grapes for the convent-feast, 
And the wealth of all thy harvest-fields for the pampered lord and priest. 



IV. 



" But I shall see the day — it will come before I die — 
I shall see it in my silver hairs, and with an age-dimmed eye ; 
When the spirit of the land to liberty shall bound, 
As yonder fountain leaps away from the darkness of the ground : 
And to my mountain-cell, the voices of the free 
Shall rise as from the beaten shore the thunders of the sea." 



A MEDITATION ON RHODE ISLAND COAL. 137 



A MEDITATION ON RHODE ISLAND COAL. 

"Decolor, obscurus, vilis, non ille repexam 
Cesariem regum, non Candida virginis ornat 
Colla, nee insigni splendet per cingula morsu 
Sed nova si nigri videas miracula saxi, 
Tune superat pulchros cultus et quicquid Eois 
Indus litoribus rubra scrutatur in alga." 

Claudian. 

I sat beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped 

With Newport coal, and as the flame grew bright 

— The many-colored flame — and played and leaped, 
I thought of rainbows, and the northern light, 

Moore's Lalla Rookh, the Treasury Report, 

And other brilliant matters of the sort. 

And last I thought of that fair isle which sent 

The mineral fuel ; on a summer day 
I saw it once, with heat and travel spent, 

And scratched by dwarf-oaks in the hollow way. 
Now dragged through sand, now jolted over stone— 
A rugged road through rugged Tiverton. 

And hotter grew the air, and hollower grew 

The deep-worn path, and horror-struck, I thought, 

Where will this dreary passage lead me to ? 
This long dull road, so narrow, deep, and hot? 

I looked to see it dive in earth outright ; 

I looked — but saw a far more welcome sight. 

Like a soft mist upon the evening shore, 

At once a lovely isle before me lay, 
Smooth, and with tender verdure covered o'er, 

As if just risen from its calm inland bay ; 



138 POEMS. 

Sloped each way gently to the grassy edge, 
And the small waves that dallied with the sedge. 

The barley was just reaped ; its heavy sheaves 
Lay on the stubble-field ; the tall maize stood 

Dark in its summer growth, and shook its leaves, 
And bright the sunlight played on the young wood- 

For fifty years ago, the old men say, 

The Briton hewed their ancient groves away. 

I saw where fountains freshened the green land, 
And where the pleasant road, from door to door, 

With rows of cherry-trees on either hand, 
Went wandering all that fertile region o'er — 

Rogue's Island once — but when the rogues were dead, 

Rhode Island was the name it took instead. 

Beautiful island ! then it only seemed 

A lovely stranger ; it has grown a friend. 

I gazed on its smooth slopes, but never dreamed 
How soon that green and quiet isle would send 

The treasures of its womb across the sea, 

To warm a poet's room and boil his tea. 

Dark anthracite ! that reddenest on my hearth, 
Thou in those island mines didst slumber long ; 

But now thou art come forth to move the earth, 
And put to shame the men that mean thee wrong : 

Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate thee, 

And warm the shins of all that underrate thee. 

Yea, they did wrong thee foully — they who mocked 
Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst not burn ; 

Of hewing thee to chimney-pieces talked, 
And grew profane, and swore, in bitter scorn 






A MEDITATION ON RHODE ISLAND COAL. 139 

That- men might to thy inner caves retire, 
And there, unsinged, abide the day of fire. 

Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state, 

That I too have seen greatness — even I — 
Shook hands with Adams, stared at La Fayette, 

When, barehead, in the hot noon of July, 
He would not let the umbrella be held o'er him, 
For which three cheers burst from the mob before him. 

And I have seen — not many months ago — 

An Eastern Governor in chapeau bras 
And military coat, a glorious show ! 

Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah ! 
How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan ! 
How many hands were shook and votes were won ! 

'Twas a great Governor ; thou too shalt be 

Great in thy turn, and wide shall spread thy fame 

And swiftly ; farthest Maine shall hear of thee, 
And cold New Brunswick gladden at thy name. 

And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping isle 

That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile. 

For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat 

The hissing rivers into steam, and drive 
Huge masses from thy mines, on iron feet, 

Walking their steady way, as if alive, 
Northward, till everlasting ice besets thee. 
And South as far as the grim Spaniard lets thee. 

Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea, 
Like its own monsters — boats that for a guinea 

Will take a man to Havre — and shalt be 
The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny, 



I4-0 POEMS. 



And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can wear 
As good a suit of broadcloth as the mayor. 

Then we will laugh at winter when we hear 
The grim old churl about our dwellings rave 

Thou, from that " ruler of the inverted year," 
Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, 

And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, 

And melt the icicles from off his chin. 



THE NEW MOON. 

When, as the garish day is done, 
Heaven burns with the descended sun, 

'Tis passing sweet to mark, 
Amid that flush of crimson light, 
The new moon's modest bow grow bright, 

As earth and sky grow dark. 

Few are the hearts too cold to feel 
A thrill of gladness o'er them steal, 

When first the wandering eye 
Sees faintly, in the evening blaze, 
That glimmering curve of tender rays 

Just planted in the sky. 

The sight of that young crescent brings 
Thoughts of all fair and youthful things — ■ 

The hopes of early years ; 
And childhood's purity and grace, 
And joys that like a rainbow chase 

The passing shower of tears. 



THE NEW MOON. 



141 




The captive yields him to the dream 
Of freedom, when that virgin beam 

Comes out upon the air ; 
And painfully the sick man tries 
To fix his dim and burning eyes 

On the sweet promise there. 



Most welcome to the lover's sight 
Glitters that pure, emerging light ; 



142 POEMS. 



For prattling poets say, 
That sweetest is the lovers' walk, 
And tenderest is their murmured talk, 

Beneath its gentle ray. 

And there do graver men behold 
A type of errors, loved of old, 

Forsaken and forgiven ; 
And thoughts and wishes not of earth 
Just opening in their early birth, 

Like that new light in heaven. 



OCTOBER. 

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath ! 
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, 
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, 

And the year smiles as it draws near its death. 

Wind of the sunny south ! oh, still delay 
In the gay woods and in the golden air, 
Like to a good old age released from care, 

Journeying, in long serenity, away. 

In such a bright, late quiet, would that I 

Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks, 
And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, 

And music of kind voices ever nigh ; 

And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, 

Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. 



THE DAMSEL OE PERU. 143 



THE DAMSEL OF PERU. 

WHERE olive-leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew, 
There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru. 
Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air, 
Came glimpses of her ivory neck and of her glossy hair ; 
And sweetly rang her silver voice, within that shady nook, 
As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook. 

'Tis a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish tongue, 
That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was sung ; 
When from their mountain-holds, on the Moorish rout below, 
Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe. 
Awhile that melody is still, and then breaks forth anew 
A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru. 

For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side, 
And sent him to the war the day she should have been his bride, 
And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right, 
And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight. 
Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months have fled, 
And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed. 

A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, 

And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north. 

Thou look'st in vain, sweet maiden, the sharpest sight would fail 

To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale ; 

For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat, 

And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeling in the heat. 

That white hand is withdrawn, that fair sad face is gone, 
But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on, 



144 POEMS. 

Not as of late, in cheerful tones, but mournfully and low, — 
A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago, 
Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave, 
And her who died of sorrow, upon his early grave. 

But see, along that mountain-slope, a fiery horseman ride ; 
Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre at his side. 
His spurs are buried rowel-deep, he rides with loosened rein, 
There's blood upon his charger's flank and foam upon the mane 
He speeds him toward the olive-grove, along that shaded hill ; 
God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should mean her ill ! 

And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly I hear 
A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek — but not of fear. 
For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak 
The overflow of gladness, when words are all too weak : 
" I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free, 
And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove with thee." 



THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 

Chained in the market-place he stood, 

A man of giant frame, 
Amid the gathering multitude 

That shrunk to hear his name — 
All stern of look and strong of limb, 

His dark eye on the ground : — 
And silently they gazed on him 

As on a lion bound. 



THE AFRICAN CHIEF. 

Vainly, but well, that chief had fought, 

He was a captive now, 
Yet pride, that fortune humbles not, 

Was written on his brow. 
The scars his dark broad bosom wore 

Showed warrior true and brave ; 
A prince among his tribe before, 

He could not be a slave. 

Then to his conqueror he spake : 

" My brother is a king ; 
Undo this necklace from my neck, 

And take this bracelet ring, 
And send me where my brother reigns, 

And I will fill thy hands 
With store of ivory from the plains, 

And gold-dust from the sands." 

" Not for thy ivory nor thy gold 

Will I unbind thy chain ; 
That bloody hand shall never hold 

The battle-spear again. 
A price thy nation never gave 

Shall yet be paid for thee ; 
For thou shalt be the Christian's slave, 

In lands beyond the sea." 

Then wept the warrior chief, and bade 

To shred his locks away ; 
And one by one, each heavy braid 

Before the victor lay. 
Thick were the platted locks, and long, 

And closely hidden there 
Shone many a wedge of gold among 

The dark and crisped hair. 
10 



145 



146 POEMS. 



" Look, feast thy greedy eye with gold 

Long kept for sorest need : 
Take it — thou askest sums untold — 

And say that I am freed. 
Take it — my wife, the long, long day, 

Weeps by the cocoa-tree, 
And my young children leave their play, 

And ask in vain for me." 

" I take thy gold, but I have made 

Thy fetters fast and strong, 
And ween that by the cocoa-shade 

Thy wife will wait thee long." 
Strong was the agony that shook 

The captive's frame to hear, 
And the proud meaning of his look 

Was changed to mortal fear. 

His heart was broken — crazed his brain 

At once his eye grew wild ; 
He struggled fiercely with his chain, 

Whispered, and wept, and smiled ; 
Yet wore not long those fatal bands, 

And once, at shut of day, 
They drew him forth upon the sands, 

The foul hyena's prey. 



SPRING IN TOWN. 

-The country ever has a lagging Spring, 
Waiting for May to call its violets forth, 

And June its roses ; showers and sunshine bring, 
Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth ; 



SPRING IN TOWN 147 

To put their foliage out, the woods are slack, 
And one by one the singing-birds come back. 

Within the city's bounds the time of flowers 

Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day, 
Such as full often, for a few bright hours, 

Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May, 
Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom — 
And lo ! our borders glow with sudden bloom. 

For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then 

Gorgeous as a rivulet's banks in June, 
That overhung with blossoms, through its glen, 

Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon, 
And they who search the untrodden wood for flowers 
Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours. 

For here are eyes that shame the violet, 

Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies, 
And foreheads, white, as when in clusters set, 

The anemones by forest-mountains rise ; 
And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak 
Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek. 

And thick about those lovely temples lie 

Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled, 
Thrice happy man ! whose trade it is to buy, 

And bake, and braid those love-knots of the world ; 
Who curls of every glossy color keepest, 
And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest. 

And well thou mayst— for Italy's brown maids 

Send the dark locks with which their brows are dressed, 

And Gascon lasses, from their jetty braids, 
Crop half, to buy a ribbon for the rest : 



148 POEMS. 

But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare, 
And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair. 

Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron grieve, 

To see her locks of an unlovely hue, 
Frouzy or thin, for liberal art shall give 

Such piles of curls as Nature never knew. 
Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight 
Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a fright. 

Soft voices and light laughter wake the street, 
Like notes of woodbirds, and where'er the eye 

Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet 
Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by. 

The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space, 

Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace. 

No swimming Juno gait, of languor born, 
Is theirs, but a light step of freest grace — 

Light as Camilla's o'er the unbent corn — 
A step that speaks the spirit of the place, 

Since Quiet, meek old dame, was driven away 

lV) Sing Sing and the shores of Tappan Bay. 

Ye that dash, by in chariots ! who will care 
For steeds or footmen now ? ye cannot show 

Fair face, and dazzling dress, and graceful air, 
And last edition of the shape ! Ah, no, 

These sights are for the earth and open sky, 

And your loud wheels unheeded rattle by. 



THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. 



149 







THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. 



Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, 
When our mother Nature laughs around ; 

When even the deep blue heavens look glad, 

And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground ? 



1 50 POEMS. 

There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, 
And the gossip of swallows through all the sky ; 

The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den, 
And the wilding bee hums merrily by. 

The clouds are at play in the azure space, 

And their shadows at play on the bright-green vale, 

And here they stretch to the frolic chase, 
And there they roll on the easy gale. 

There's a dance of leaves in that aspen bower, 
There's a titter of winds in that beechen tree, 

There's a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, 
And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. 

And look at the broad-faced sun, how he smiles 
On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, 

On the leaping waters and gay young isles ; 
Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away. 



THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR. 

Gather him to his grave again, 

And solemnly and softly lay, 
Beneath the verdure of the plain, 

The warrior's scattered bones away. 
Pay the deep reverence, taught of old, 

The homage of man's heart to death ; 
Nor dare to trifle with the mould 

Once hallowed by the Almighty's breath. 



THE DISINTERRED WARRIOR. 151 

The soul hath quickened every part — 

That remnant of a martial brow, 
Those ribs that held the mighty heart, 

That strong arm — strong no longer now. 
Spare them, each mouldering relic spare, 

Of God's own image ; let them rest, 
Till not a trace shall speak of where 

The awful likeness was impressed. 

For he was fresher from the hand 

That formed of earth the human face, 
And to the elements did stand 

In nearer kindred than our race 
In many a flood to madness tossed, 

In many a storm has been his path ; 
He hid him not from heat or frost, 

But met them, and defied their wrath. 

Then they were kind — the forests here, 

Rivers, and stiller waters, paid 
A tribute to the net and spear 

Of the red ruler of the shade. 
Fruits on the woodland branches lay, 

Roots in the shaded soil below ; 
The stars looked forth to teach his way ; 

The still earth warned him of the foe. 

A noble race ! but they are gone, 

With their old forests wide and deep, 
And we have built our homes upon 

Fields where their generations sleep. 
Their fountains slake our thirst at noon, 

Upon their fields our harvest waves, 
Our lovers woo beneath their moon — 

Then let us spare, at least, their graves. 



152 



POEMS. 




r)W^ 



MIDSUMMER. 



A power is on the earth and in the air 
From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, 
And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade, 

From the hot steam and from the fiery glare. 

Look forth upon the earth — her thousand plants 
Are smitten ; even the dark, sun-loving maize 
Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze ; 

The herd beside the shaded fountain pants ; 

For life is driven from all the landscape brown ; 
The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den, 
The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men 

Drop by the sunstroke in the populous town : 
As if the Day of Fire had dawned, and sent 
Its deadly breath into the firmament. 



THE GREEK PARTISAN. 153 



THE GREEK PARTISAN. 

OUR free flag is dancing 

In the free mountain air, 
And burnished arms are glancing, 

And warriors gathering there ; 
And fearless is the little train 

Whose gallant bosoms shield it ; 
The blood that warms their hearts shall stain 

That banner, ere they yield it. 
— Each dark eye is fixed on earth, 

And brief each solemn greeting ; 
There is no look nor sound of mirth, 

Where those stern men are meeting. 

They go to the slaughter 

To strike the sudden blow, 
And pour on earth, like water, 

The best blood of the foe ; 
To rush on them from rock and height, 

And clear the narrow valley, 
Or fire their camp at dead of night, 

And fly before they rally. 
— Chains are round our country pressed, 

And cowards have betrayed her, 
And we must make her bleeding breast 

The grave of the invader. 

Not till from her fetters 

We raise up Greece again, 
And write, in bloody letters, 

That tyranny is slain — 



1 54 POEMS. 



Oh, not till then the smile shall steal 

Across those darkened faces, 
Nor one of all those warriors feel 

His children's dear embraces. 
— Reap we not the ripened wheat, 

Till yonder hosts are flying, 
And all their bravest, at our feet, 

Like autumn sheaves are lying. 



THE TWO GRAVES. 

'TlS a bleak wild hill, but green and bright 
In the summer warmth and the mid-day light ; 
There's the hum of the bee and the chirp of the wren 
And the dash of the brook from the alder-glen ; 
There's the sound of a bell from the scattered flock, 
And the shade of the beech lies cool on the rock, 
And fresh from the west is the free wind's breath ; — 
There is nothing here that speaks of death. 

Far yonder, where orchards and gardens lie, 
And dwellings cluster, 'tis there men die, 
They are born, they die, and are buried near, 
Where the populous graveyard lightens the bier. 
For strict and close are the ties that bind 
In death the children of human-kind ; 
Yea, stricter and closer than those of life, — 
'Tis a neighborhood that knows no strife. 
They are noiselessly gathered — friend and foe — 
To the still and dark assemblies below. 



THE TWO GRAVES. 155 

Without a frown or a smile they meet, 
Each pale and calm in his winding-sheet ; 
In that sullen home of peace and gloom, 
Crowded, like guests in a banquet-room. 

Yet there are graves in this lonely spot, 
Two humble graves — but I meet them not. 
I have seen them— eighteen years are past 
Since I found their place in the brambles last — 
The place where, fifty winters ago, 
An aged man in his locks of snow, 
And an aged matron, withered with years, 
Were solemnly laid !— but not with tears. 
For none, who sat by the light of their hearth, 
Beheld their coffins covered with earth ; 
Their kindred were far, and their children dead, 
When the funeral-prayer was coldly said. 

Two low green hillocks, two small gray stones, 
Rose over the place that held their bones ; 
But the grassy hillocks are levelled again, 
And the keenest eye might search in vain, 
'Mong briers, and ferns, and paths of sheep, 
For the spot where the aged couple sleep. 

Yet well might they lay, beneath the soil 
Of this lonely spot, that man of toil, 
And trench the strong hard mould with the spade, 
Where never before a grave was made ; 
For he hewed the dark old woods away, 
And gave the virgin fields to the day ; 
And the gourd and the bean, beside his door, 
Bloomed where their flowers ne'er opened before ; 
And the maize stood up, and the bearded rye 
Bent low in the breath ot an unknown sky. 



156 POEMS. 

'Tis said that when life is ended here, 
The spirit is borne to a distant sphere ; 
That it visits its earthly home no more, 
Nor looks on the haunts it loved before. 
But why should the bodiless soul be sent 
Far off to a long, long banishment ? 
Talk not of the light and the living green ! 
It will pine for the dear familiar scene ; 
It will yearn, in that strange bright w T orld, to behold 
The rock and the stream it knew of old. 

'Tis a cruel creed, believe it not ! 
Death to the good is a milder lot. 
They are here — they are here — that harmless pair, 
In the yellow sunshine and flowing air, 
In the light cloud-shadows that slowly pass, 
In the sounds that rise from the murmuring grass. 
They sit where their humble cottage stood, 
They walk by the waving edge of the wood, 
And list to the long-accustomed flow 
Of the brook that wets the rocks below, 
Patient, and peaceful, and passionless, 
As seasons on seasons swiftly press, 
They watch, and wait, and linger around, 
Till the day when their bodies shall leave the ground. 



THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS. 

I WOULD not always reason. The straight path 
Wearies us with its never-varying lines, 
And we grow melancholy. I would make 
Reason my guide, but she should sometimes sit, 



THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS. 157 

Patiently by the way-side, while I traced 

The mazes of the pleasant wilderness 

Around me. 7 ' She should be my counsellor 

But not my tyrant. For the spirit needs 

Impulses from a deeper source than hers, 

And there are motions, in the mind of man, 

That she must look upon with awe. I bow 

Reverently to her dictates, but not less 

Hold to the fair illusions of old time — 

Illusions that shed brightness over life, 

And glory over Nature. Look, even now, 

Where two bright planets in the twilight meet 

Upon the saffron heaven — the imperial star 

Of Jove, and she that from her radiant urn 

Pours forth the light of love. Let me believe, 

Awhile, that they are met for ends of good, 

Amid the evening glory, to confer 

Of men and their affairs, to shed down 

Kind influence. Lo ! they brighten as we gaze, 

And shake out softer fires ! The great earth feels 

The gladness and the quiet of the time. 

Meekly the mighty river, that infolds 

This mighty city, smooths his front, and far 

Glitters and burns even to the rocky base 

Of the dark heights that bound him to the west ; 

And a deep murmur, from the many streets, 

Rises like a thanksgiving. Put we hence 

Dark and sad thoughts awhile — there's time for them 

Hereafter — on the morrow we will meet, 

With melancholy looks, to tell our griefs, 

And make each other wretched ; this calm hour, 

This balmy, blessed evening, we will give 

To cheerful hopes and dreams of happy days, 

Born of the meeting of those glorious stars. 



58 POEMS. 

Enough of drought has parched the year, and scared 
The land with dread of famine. Autumn, yet, 
Shall make men glad with unexpected fruits, 
The dog-star shall shine harmless : genial days 
Shall softly glide away into the keen 
And wholesome cold of winter ; he that fears 
The pestilence, shall gaze on those pure beams, 
And breathe, with confidence, the quiet air. 

Emblems of power and beauty ; well may they 
Shine brightest on our borders, and withdraw 
Toward the great Pacific, marking out 
The path of empire. Thus in our own land, 
Ere long, the better Genius of our race, 
Having encompassed earth, and tamed its tribes, 
Shall sit him down beneath the farthest west, 
By the shore of that calm ocean, and look back 
On realms made happy. 

Light the nuptial torch, 
And say the glad, yet solemn rite, that knits 
The youth and maiden. Happy days to them 
That wed this evening !— a long life of love, 
And blooming sons and daughters ! Happy they 
Born at this hour, for they shall see an age 
Whiter and holier than the past, and go 
Late to their graves. Men shall wear softer hearts, 
And shudder at the butcheries of war, 
As now at other murders. 

Hapless Greece ! 
Enough of blood has wet thy rocks, and stained 
Thy rivers ; deep enough thy chains have worn 
Their links into thy flesh ; the sacrifice 



A SUMMER RAMBLE. 159 

Of thy pure maidens, and thy innocent babes, 

And reverend priests, has expiated all 

Thy crimes of old. In yonder mingling lights 

There is an omen of good days for thee. 

Thou shalt arise from midst the dust and sit 

Again among the nations. Thine own arm 

Shall yet redeem thee. Not in wars like thine 

The world takes part. Be it a strife of kings — 

Despot with despot battling for a throne — 

And Europe shall be stirred throughout her realms, 

Nations shall put on harness, and shall fall 

Upon each other, and in all their bounds 

The wailing of the childless shall not cease. 

Thine is a war for liberty, and thou 

Must fight it single-handed. The old world 

Looks coldly on the murderers of thy race, 

And leaves thee to the struggle ; and the new — 

I fear me thou couldst tell a shameful tale 

Of fraud and lust of gain ; thy treasury drained, 

And Missolonghi fallen. Yet thy wrongs 

Shall put new strength into thy heart and hand, 

And God and thy good sword shall yet work out, 

For thee, a terrible deliverance. 



A SUMMER RAMBLE. 

The quiet August noon has come ; 

A slumberous silence fills the sky, 
The fields are still, the woods are dumb, 

In glassy sleep the waters lie. 



:6o POEMS. 



And mark yon soft white clouds that rest 
Above our vale, a moveless throng ; 

The cattle on the mountain's breast 
Enjoy the grateful shadow long. 

Oh, how unlike those merry hours, 
In early June, when Earth laughs out, 

When the fresh winds make love to flowers, 
And woodlands sing and waters shout — 

When in the grass sweet voices talk, 
And strains of tiny music swell 

From every 7 moss-cup of the rock, 
From every nameless blossom's bell ! 

But now a joy too deep for sound, 
A peace no other season knows, 

Hushes the heavens and wraps the ground, 
The blessing of supreme repose. 

Away ! I will not be, to-day, 
The only slave of toil and care ; 

Away from desk and dust ! away ! 
I'll be as idle as the air. 

Beneath the open sky abroad, 

Among the plants and breathing things, 
The sinless, peaceful works of God, 

I'll share the calm the season brings. 

Come, thou, in whose soft eyes I see 
The gentle meanings of thy heart, 

One day amid the woods with me, 
From men and all their cares apart. 



A SUMMER RAMBLE. 



161 



And where, upon the meadow's breast, 
The shadow of the thicket lies, 

The blue wild-flowers thou gatherest 
Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes. 

Come, and when mid the calm profound, 
I turn, those gentle eyes to seek, 

They, like the lovely landscape round, 
Of innocence and peace shall speak. 



. i - 




Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade, 
And on the silent valleys gaze, 

Winding and widening, till they fade 
In yon soft ring of summer haze. 

ii 



[62 POEMS. 

The village trees their summits rear 
Still as its spire, and yonder flock 

At rest in those calm fields appear 
As chiselled from the lifeless rock. 

One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks — 
There the hushed winds their sabbath keep, 

While a near hum from bees and brooks 
Comes faintly like the breath of sleep. 

Well may the gazer deem that when, 
Worn with the struggle and the strife, 

And heart-sick at the wrongs of men, . 
The good forsakes the scene of life ; 

Like this deep quiet that, awhile. 
Lingers the lovely landscape o'er, 

Shall be the peace whose holy smile 
Welcomes him to a happier shore/ 



A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE HUDSON. 

Cool shades and dews are round my way, 

And silence of the early day ; 

Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed, 

Glitters the mighty Hudson spread, 

Unrippled, save by drops that fall 

From shrubs that fringe his mountain-wall ; 



A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE HUDSON. 163 

And o'er the clear still water swells 
The music of the Sabbath bells. 

All, save this little nook of land, 

Circled with trees, on which I stand ; 

All, save that line of hills which lie 

Suspended in the mimic sky — 

Seems a blue void, above, below, 

Through which the white clouds come and go ; 

And from the green world's farthest steep 

I gaze into the airy deep. 

Loveliest of lovely things are they, 
On earth, that soonest pass away. 
The rose that lives its little hour 
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower. 
Even love, long tried and cherished long, 
Becomes more tender and more strong 
At thought of that insatiate grave 
From which its yearnings cannot save. 

River! in this still hour thou hast 
Too much of heaven on earth to last ; 
Nor long may thy still waters lie, 
An image of the glorious sky. 
Thy fate and mine are not repose, 
And ere another evening close, 
Thou to thy tides shalt turn again, 
And I to seek the crowd of men. 



1 64 POEMS. 



THE HURRICANE. 

Lord of the winds ! I feel thee nigh, 
I know thy breath in the burning sky ! 
And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, 
For the coming of the hurricane ! 

And lo ! on the wing of the heavy gales, 
Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails ; 
Silent and slow, and terribly strong, 
The mighty shadow is borne along, 
Like the dark eternity to come ; 
While the world below, dismayed and dumb, 
Through the. calm of the thick hot atmosphere, 
Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. 

They darken fast ; and the golden blaze 
Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, 
And he sends through the shade a funeral ray— 
A glare that is neither night nor day, 
A beam that touches, with hues of death, 
The clouds above and the earth beneath. 
To its covert glides the silent bird, 
While the hurricane's distant voice is heard 
Uplifted among the mountains round, 
And the forests hear and answer the sound. 

He is come ! he is come ! do ye not behold 
His ample robes on the wind unrolled ? 
Giant of air ! we bid thee hail ! — 
How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale ; 



THE HURRICANE. 



165 




Heavily poured on the shuddering ground." 



1 66 POEMS. 

How his huge and writhing arms are bent 
To clasp the zone of the firmament, 
And fold at length, in their dark embrace, 
From mountain to mountain the visible space ! 

Darker — still darker ! the whirlwinds bear 
The dust of the plains to the middle air : 
And hark to the crashing, long and loud, 
Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud ! 
You may trace its path by the flashes that start 
From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, 
As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, 
And flood the skies with a lurid glow. 

What roar is that ? — 'tis the rain that breaks 
In torrents away from the airy lakes, 
Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, 
And shedding a nameless horror round. 
Ah ! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, 
With the very clouds !- ye are lost to my eyes. 
I seek ye vainly, and see in your place 
The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, 
A whirling ocean that fills the wall 
Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. 
And I, cut off from the world, remain 
Alone with the terrible hurricane. 



WILLIAM TELL. 



167 




WILLIAM TELL. 



Chains may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee, 
Tell, of the iron heart ! they could not tame ! 
For thou wert of the mountains ; they proclaim 

The everlasting creed of liberty — 



68 POEMS. 

That creed is written on the untrampled snow, 
Thundered by torrents which no power can hold, 
Save that of God, when He sends forth His cold, 

And breathed by winds that through the free heaven blow. 

Thou, while thy prison-walls were dark around, 
Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught, 
And to thy brief captivity was brought 

A vision of thy Switzerland unbound. 

The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee 
For the great work to set thy country free. 



THE HUNTER'S SERENADE. 

Thy bower is finished, fairest ! 

Fit bower for hunter's bride, 
Where old woods overshadow 

The green savanna's side. 
I've wandered long, and wandered far, 

And never have I met, 
In all this lovely Western land, 

A spot so lovely yet. 
But I shall think it fairer 

When thou art come to bless, 
W 7 ith thy sweet smile and silver voice, 

Its silent loveliness. 

For thee the wild-grape glistens, 

On sunny knoll and tree, 
The slim papaya ripens 

Its yellow fruit for thee. 



THE HUNTER'S SERENADE. 169 

For thee the duck, on glassy stream, 

The prairie-fowl shall die, 
My rifle for thy feast shall bring 

The wild-swan from the sky. 
The forest's leaping panther, 

Fierce, beautiful, and fleet, 
Shall yield his spotted hide to be 

A carpet for thy feet. 

I know, for thou hast told me, 

Thy maiden love of flowers ; 
Ah. those that deck thy gardens 

Are pale compared with ours. 
When our wide woods and mighty lawns 

Bloom to the April skies, 
The earth has no more gorgeous sight 

To show to human eyes. 
In meadows red with blossoms, 

All summer long, the bee 
Murmurs, and loads his yellow thighs, 

For thee, my love, and me. 

Or wouldst thou gaze at tokens 

Of ages long ago — 
Our old oaks stream with mosses, 

And sprout with mistletoe ; 
And mighty vines, like serpents, climb 

The giant sycamore ; 
And trunks, o'erthrown for centuries, 

Cumber the forest-floor ; 
And in the great savanna, 

The solitary mound, 
Built by the elder world, o'erlooks 

The loneliness around. 



170 POEMS. 



Come, thou hast not forgotten 

Thy pledge and promise quite, 
With many blushes murmured, 

Beneath the evening light. 
Come, the young violets crowd my door, 

Thy earliest look to win, 
And at my silent window-sill 

The jessamine peeps in. 
All day the red-bird warbles, 

Upon the mulberry near, 
And the night-sparrow trills her song, 

All night, with none to hear. 



THE GREEK BOY. 

Gone are the glorious Greeks of old, 

Glorious in mien and mind ; 
Their bones are mingled with the mould 

Their dust is on the wind ; 
The forms they hewed from living stone 
Survive the waste of years, alone, 
And, scattered with their ashes, show 
What greatness perished long ago. 

Yet fresh the myrtles there ; the springs 

Gush brightly as of yore ; 
Flowers blossom from the dust of kings, 

As many an age before. 
There Nature moulds as nobly now, 
As e'er of old, the human brow ; 



THE PAST. 171 

And copies still the martial form 
That braved Plataea's battle-storm, 

Boy ! thy first looks were taught to seek 

Their heaven in Hellas' skies ; 
Her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek, 

Her sunshine lit thine eyes ; 
Thine ears have drunk the woodland strains 
Heard by old poets, and thy veins 
Swell with the blood of demigods, 
That slumber in thy country's sods. 

Now is thy nation free — though late — 

Thy elder brethren broke — 
Broke, ere thy spirit felt its weight, 

The intolerable yoke. 
And Greece, decayed, dethroned, doth see 
Her youth renewed in such as thee : 
A shoot of that old vine that made 
The nations silent in its shade. 



THE PAST. 

THOU unrelenting Past ! 
Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, 

And fetters, sure and fast, 
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 

Far in thy realm withdrawn 
Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom, 

And glorious ages gone 
Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. 



172 POEMS. 



Childhood, with all its mirth, 
Youth, Manhood, Age that draws us to the ground, 

And last, Man's Life on earth, 
Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. 

Thou hast my better years ; 
Thou hast my earlier friends, the good, the kind, 

Yielded to thee with tears — 
The venerable form, the exalted mind. 

My spirit yearns to bring 
The lost ones back — yearns with desire intense, 

And struggles hard to wring 
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. 

In vain ; thy gates deny 
All passage save to those who hence depart ; 

Nor to the streaming eye 
Thou giv'st them back — nor to the broken heart. 

In thy abysses hide 
Beauty and excellence unknown ; to thee 

Earth's wonder and her pride 
Are gathered, as the waters to the sea ; 

Labors of good to man, 
Unpublished charity, unbroken faith, 

Love, that midst grief began, 
And grew with years, and faltered not in death. 

Full many a mighty name 
Lurks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered ; 

With thee are silent fame, 
Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. 



UPON THE MOUNTAIN'S DISTANT HEAD." 173 

Thine for a space are they — 
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last : 

Thy gates shall yet give way, 
The bolts shall fall, inexorable Past ! 

All that of good and fair 
Has gone into thy womb from earliest time, 

Shall then come forth to wear 
The glory and the beauty of its prime. 

They have not perished — no ! 
Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet, 

Smiles, radiant long ago, 
And features, the great soul's apparent seat. 

All shall come back ; each tie 
Of pure affection shall be knit again ; 

Alone shall Evil die, 
And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. 

VAnd then shall I behold 
Him, by whose kind paternal side I sprung, 

And her, who, still and cold, 
Fills the next grave —the beautiful and young. 



"UPON THE MOUNTAIN'S DISTANT HEAD. 

Upon the mountain's distant head, 
With trackless snows forever white, 

Where all is still, and cold, and dead, 
Late shines the day's departing light. 



174 



POEMS. 







3fe™ 



But far below those icy rocks, 

The vales, in summer bloom arrayed, 

Woods full of birds, and fields of flocks, 
Are dim with mist and dark with shade. 



'Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts, 
And eyes where generous meanings burn, 

Earliest the light of life departs, 
But lingers with the cold and stern. 



THE EVENING WIND. 



THE EVENING WIND. 



175 



Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou 
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day, 

Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow ; 
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play, 

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, 

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, 

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 

To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea ! 

Nor I alone ; a thousand bosoms round 

Inhale thee in the fulness of delight ; 
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 

Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; 
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, 

Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight. 
Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth, 
God's blessing, breathed upon the fainting earth ! 

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, 

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse 

The wide old wood from his majestic rest, 
Summoning from the innumerable boughs 

The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast : 
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 

The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, 

And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. 

The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 

And dry the moistened curls that overspread 

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep : 



176 



POEMS. 







And they who stand about the sick man's bed, 

Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep, 
And softly part his curtains to allow 
Thy visit, .grateful to his burning brow. 



Go — but the circle of eternal change, 

Which is the life of Nature, shall restore, 

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, 
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more ; 

Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, 
Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore ; 

And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 

He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 



"WHEN THE FIRMAMENT QUIVERS." 177 



"WHEN THE FIRMAMENT QUIVERS WITH 
DAYLIGHT'S YOUNG BEAM." 

WHEN the firmament quivers with daylight's young beam, 
And the woodlands awaking burst into a hymn, 

And the glow of the sky blazes back from the stream, 

How the bright ones of heaven in the brightness grow dim ! 

Oh ! 'tis sad, in that moment of glory and song, 
To see, while the hill-tops are waiting the sun, 

The glittering band that kept watch all night long 
O'er Love and o'er Slumber, go out one by one : 

Till the circle of ether, deep, ruddy, and vast, 

Scarce glimmers with one of the train that were there ; 

And their leader, the day-star, the brightest and last, 
Twinkles faintly and fades in that desert of air. 

Thus, Oblivion, from midst of whose shadow we came, 
Steals o'er us again when life's twilight is gone ; 

And the crowd of bright names, in the heaven of fame, 
Grow pale and are quenched as the years hasten on. 

Let them fade— but we'll pray that the age, in whose flight, 
Of ourselves and our friends the remembrance shall die, 

May rise o'er the world, with the gladness and light 
Of the morning that withers the stars from the sky. 



12 



178 



POEMS. 



"INNOCENT CHILD AND SNOW-WHITE FLOWER." 

Innocent child and snow-white flower ! 
Well are ye paired in your opening hour. 
Thus should the pure and the lovely meet, 
Stainless with stainless, and sweet with sweet. 




C K^ 



White as those leaves, just blown apart, 
Are the folds of thy own young heart, 
Guilty passion and cankering care 
Never have left their traces there. 



TO THE RIVER ARVE. 179 

Artless one ! though thou gazest now 
O'er the white blossom with earnest brow, 
Soon will it tire thy childish eye ; 
Fair as it is, thou wilt throw it by. 

Throw it aside in thy weary hour, 
Throw to the ground the fair white flower ; 
Yet, as thy tender years depart, 
Keep that white and innocent heart. 



TO THE RIVER ARVE. 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN AT A HAMLET NEAR THE FOOT OF 
MONT BLANC. 

Not from the sands or cloven rocks, 

Thou rapid Arve ! thy waters flow ; 
Nor earth, within her bosom, locks 

Thy dark unfathomed wells below. 
Thy springs are in the cloud, thy stream 

Begins to move and murmur first 
Where ice-peaks feel the noonday beam, 

Or rain-storms on the glacier burst. 

Born where the thunder and the blast 

And morning's earliest light are born, 
Thou rushest swoln, and loud, and fast, 

By these low homes, as if in scorn : 
Yet humbler springs yield purer waves ; 

And brighter, glassier streams than thine, 
Sent up from earth's unlighted caves, 

With heaven's own beam and image shine. 



i8o 



POEMS. 




Yet stay ; for here are flowers and trees ; 

Warm rays on cottage-roofs are here, 
And laugh of girls, and hum of bees — 

Here linger till thy waves are clear. 
Thou heedest not — thou hastest on ; 

From steep to steep thy torrent falls ; 
Till, mingling with the mighty Rhone, 

It rests beneath Geneva's walls. 

Rush on — but were there one with me 

That loved me, I would light my hearth 
Here, where with God's own majesty 

Are touched the features of the earth. 
By these old peaks, white, high, and vast, 

Still rising as the tempests beat, 
Here would I dwell, and sleep, at last, 

Among the blossoms at their feet. 



TO COLE, THE PAINTER, DEPARTING FOR EUROPE. 181 



TO COLE, THE PAINTER, DEPARTING FOR EUROPE. 

Thine eyes shall see the light of distant skies ; 

Yet, Cole ! thy heart shall bear to Europe's strand 

A living image of our own bright land, 
Such as upon thy glorious canvas lies ; 
Lone lakes — savannas where the bison roves — 

Rocks rich with summer garlands — solemn streams — 

Skies, where the desert eagle wheels and screams — 
Spring bloom and autumn blaze of boundless groves. 
Fair scenes shall greet thee where thou goest — fair, 

But different — everywhere the trace of men, 

Paths, homes, graves, ruins, from the lowest glen 
To where life shrinks from the fierce Alpine air — 

Gaze on them, till the tears shall dim thy sight, 

But keep that earlier, wilder image bright. 



TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew 
And colored with the heaven's own blue, 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night — 

Thou comest not when violets lean 
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
Or columbines, in purple dressed, 
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 



1 82 POEMS. 



Thou waitest late and com'st alone, 
When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue — blue — as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
May look to heaven as I depart. 



THE TWENTY-SECOND OF DECEMBER. 

Wild was the day ; the wintry sea 

Moaned sadly on New-England's strand, 

When first the thoughtful and the free, 
Our fathers, trod the desert land. 

They little thought how pure a light, 
With years, should gather round that day ; 

How love should keep their memories bright, 
How wide a realm their sons should sway. 

Green are their bays ; but greener still 

Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed, 

And regions, now untrod, shall thrill 

With reverence when their names are breathed. 



HYMN OF THE CITY. 183 

Till where the sun, with softer fires, 

Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep, 
The children of the pilgrim sires 

This hallowed day like us shall keep. 



HYMN OF THE CITY. 

Not in the solitude 
Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see, 

Only in savage wood 
And sunny vale, the present Deity ; 

Or only hear his voice 
Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice. 

Even here do I behold 
Thy steps, Almighty ! — here, amid the crowd, 

Through the great city rolled, 
With everlasting murmur deep and loud — 

Choking the ways that wind 
'Mong the proud piles, the work of human kind. 

Thy golden sunshine comes 
From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies 

And lights their inner homes ; 
For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies, 

And givest them the stores 
Of ocean, and the harvests of its shores. 

Thy Spirit is around, 
Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along ; 

And this eternal sound — 
Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng — 

Like the resounding sea, 
Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of thee. 



1 84 POEMS. 



And when the hour of rest 
Comes, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, 

Hushing its billowy breast — 
The quiet of that moment too is thine ; 

It breathes of Him who keeps 
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. 



THE PRAIRIES. 

These are the gardens of the Desert, these 
The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, 
For which the speech of England has no name — 
The Prairies. I behold them for the first, 
And my heart swells, while the dilated sight 
Takes in the encircling vastness. Lo ! they stretch 
In airy undulations, far away, 
As if the Ocean, in his gentlest swell, 
Stood still, with all his rounded billows fixed, 
And motionless forever. Motionless ? — 
No — they are all unchained again. The clouds 
Sweep over with their shadows, and, beneath, 
The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye ; 
Dark hollows seem to glide along and chase 
The sunny ridges. Breezes of the South ! 
Who toss the golden and the flame-like flowers, 
And pass the prairie-hawk that, poised on high, 
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not — ye have played 
Among the palms of Mexico and vines 
Of Texas, and have crisped the limited brooks 
That from the fountains of Sonora glide 
Into the calm Pacific — have ye fanned 



THE PRAIRIES. 



:8 5 



A nobler or a lovelier scene than this ? 

Man hath no part in all this glorious work : 

The hand that built the firmament hath heaved 

And smoothed these verdant swells, and sown their slopes 

With herbage, planted them with island-groves, 

And hedged them round with forests. Fitting floor 

For this magnificent temple of the sky — 




With flowers whose glory and whose multitude 
Rival the constellations ! The great heavens 
Seem to stoop down upon the scene in love, — 
A nearer vault, and of a tenderer blue, 
Than that which bends above our Eastern hills. 



As o'er the verdant waste I guide my steed, 
Among the high rank grass that sweeps his sides 



1 86 POEMS. 

The hollow beating of his footstep seems 

A sacrilegious sound. I think of those 

Upon whose rest he tramples. Are they here — 

The dead of other days ? — and did the dust 

Of these fair solitudes once stir with life 

And burn with passion ? Let the mighty mounds 

That overlook the rivers, or that rise 

In the dim forest crowded with old oaks, 

Answer. A race, that long has passed away, 

Built them ; a disciplined and populous race 

Heaped, with long toil, the earth, while yet the Greek 

Was hewing the Pentelicus to forms 

Of symmetry, and rearing on its rock 

The glittering Parthenon. These ample fields 

Nourished their harvests, here their herds were fed. 

When haply by their stalls the bison lowed, 

And bowed his maned shoulder to the yoke. 

All day this desert murmured with their toils, 

Till twilight blushed, and lovers walked, and wooed 

In a forgotten language, and old tunes, 

From instruments of unremembered form, 

Gave the soft winds a voice. The red-man came — 

The roaming hunter-tribes, warlike and fierce, 

And the mound-builders vanished from the earth. 

The solitude of centuries untold 

Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf 

Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den 

Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground 

Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone ; 

All — save the piles of earth that hold their bones, 

The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods, 

The barriers which they builded from the soil 

To keep the foe at bay — till o'er the walls 

The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one, 



THE PRAIRIES. 



187 



The strongholds of the plain were forced, and heaped 

With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood 

Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres, 

And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast. 

Haply some solitary fugitive, 

Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense 

Of desolation and of fear became 

Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die. 




Man's better nature triumphed then. Kind words 
Welcomed and soothed him ; the rude conquerors 
Seated the captive with their chiefs ; he chose 
A bride among their maidens, and at length 
Seemed to forget — yet ne'er forgot — the wife 
Of his first love, and her sweet little ones, 
Butchered, amid their shrieks, with all his race. 



Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise 
Races of living things, glorious in strength, 
And perish, as the quickening breath of God 



1 88 POEMS. 

Fills them, or is withdrawn. The red-man, too, 
Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long, 
And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought 
A wilder hunting-ground. The beaver builds 
No longer by these streams, but far away, 
On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back 
The white man's face — among Missouri's springs, 
And pools whose issues swell the Oregon — 
He rears his little Venice. In these plains 
The bison feeds no more. Twice twenty leagues 
Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp, 
Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake 
The earth with thundering steps — yet here I meet 
His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool. 

Still this great solitude is quick with life. 
Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers 
They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds, 
And birds, that scarce have learned the fear of man, 
Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground, 
Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer 
Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee, 
A more adventurous colonist than man, 
With whom he came across the eastern deep, 
Fills the savannas with his murmurings, 
And hides his sweets, as in the golden age, 
Within the hollow oak. I listen long 
To his domestic hum, and think I hear 
The sound of that advancing multitude 
Which soon shall fill these deserts. From the ground 
Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice 
Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn 
Of Sabbath worshippers. The low of herds 
Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain 



SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 189 

Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once 

A fresher wind sweeps by, and breaks my dream, 

And I am in the wilderness alone. 



SONG OF MARION'S MEN. 

Our band is few but true and tried, 

Our leader frank and bold ; 
The British soldier trembles 

When Marion's name is told. 
Our fortress is the good greenwood, 

Our tent the cypress-tree ; 
We know the forest round us, 

As seamen know the sea. 
We know its walls of thorny vines, 

Its glades of reedy grass, 
Its safe and silent islands 

Within the dark morass. 

Woe to the English soldiery 

That little dread us near ! 
On them shall light at midnight 

A strange and sudden fear : 
When, waking to their tents on fire, 

They grasp their arms in vain, 
And they who stand to face us 

Are beat to earth again ; 
And they who fly in terror deem 

A mighty host behind, 
And hear the tramp of thousands 

Upon the hollow wind. 



190 POEMS. 



Then sweet the hour that brings release 

From danger and from toil : 
We talk the battle over, 

And share the battle's spoil. 
The woodland rings with laugh and shout, 

As if a hunt were up, 
And woodland flowers are gathered 

To crown the soldier's cup. 
With merry songs we mock the wind 

That in the pine-top grieves, 
And slumber long and sweetly 

On beds of oaken leaves. 

Well knows th,e fair and friendly moon 

The band that Marion leads — 
The glitter of their rifles, 

The scampering of their steeds. 
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb 

Across the moonlit plain ; 
'Tis life to feel the night-wind 

That lifts his tossing mane. 
A moment in the British camp — 

A moment — and away 
Back to the pathless forest, 

Before the peep of day. 

Grave men there are by broad Santee, 

Grave men with hoary hairs ; 
Their hearts are all with Marion, 

For Marion are their prayers. 
And lovely ladies greet our band 

With kindliest welcoming, 
With smiles like those of summer, 

And tears like those of spring. 



THE ARCTIC LOVER. 

For them we wear these trusty arms, 
And lay them down no more 

Till we have driven the Briton, 
Forever, from our shore. 



191 



THE ARCTIC LOVER. 

Gone is the long, long winter night ; 

Look, my beloved one ! 
How glorious, through his depths of light, 

Rolls the majestic sun ! 
The willows, waked from winter's death, 
Give out a fragrance like thy breath — 

The summer is begun ! 

Ay, 'tis the long bright summer day : 

Hark to that mighty crash ! 
The loosened ice-ridge breaks away — 

The smitten waters flash. 
Seaward the glittering mountain rides, 
While down its green, translucent sides 

The foamy torrents dash. 

See, love, my boat is moored for thee, 

By ocean's weedy floor — 
The petrel does not skim the sea 

More swiftly than my oar. 
We'll go, where, on the rocky isles, 
Her eggs the screaming sea-fowl piles 

Beside the pebbly shore. 



192 



POEMS. 










: WS 



ssi" :- 



-^jgpg 



While I, upon his isle of snows, 
Seek and defy the bear." 



THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. 193 

Or, bide thou where the poppy blows, 

With wind-flowers frail and fair, 
While I, upon his isle of snows, 

Seek and defy the bear. 
Fierce though he be, and huge of frame, 
This arm his savage strength shall tame, 

And drag him from his lair. 

When crimson sky and flamy cloud 

Bespeak the summer o'er, 
And the dead valleys wear a shroud 

Of snows that melt no more, 
I'll build of ice thy winter home, 
With glistening walls and glassy dome, 

And spread with skins the floor. 

The white fox by thy couch shall play ; 

And, from the frozen skies, 
The meteors of a mimic day 

Shall flash upon thine eyes. 
And I — for such thy vow — meanwhile 
Shall hear thy voice and see thy smile, 

Till that long midnight flies. 



THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. 

Beneath the waning moon I walk at night, 
And muse on human life — for all around 

Are dim uncertain shapes that cheat the sight, 
And pitfalls lurk in -shade along the ground, 
13 



194 



POEMS. 



And broken gleams of brightness, here and there, 
Glance through, and leave unwarmed the death-like air. 

The trampled earth returns a sound of fear — 
A hollow sound, as if I walked on tombs ; 

And lights, that tell of cheerful homes, appear 
Far off, and die like hope amid the glooms. 

A mournful wind across the landscape flies, 

And the wide atmosphere is full of sighs. 




And I, with faltering footsteps, journey on, 
Watching the stars that roll the hours away, 

Till the faint light that guides me now is gone, 
And, like another life, the glorious day 

Shall open o'er me from the empyreal height, 

With warmth, and certainty, and boundless light. 



TRANSLATIONS 



VERSION OF A FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDES. 

The night-winds howled — the billows dashed 

Against the tossing chest ; 
As Danae to her broken heart 

Her slumbering infant pressed. 

" My little child " — in tears she said — 

" To wake and weep is mine, 
But thou canst sleep — thou dost not know 

Thy mother's lot, and thine. 

" The moon is up, the moonbeams smile — 

They tremble on the main ; 
But dark, within my floating cell, 

To me they smile in vain. 

" Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm, 

Thy clustering locks are dry, 
Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust, 

Nor breakers booming high. 

" As o'er thy sweet unconscious face 

A mournful watch I keep, 
I think, didst thou but know thy fate, 

How thou wouldst also weep. 



198 TRANSLATIONS. 

" Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep, ye winds, 
That vex the restless brine — 

When shall these eyes, my babe, be sealed 
As peacefully as thine ! " 



FROM THE SPANISH OF VILLEGAS. 

'Tis sweet, in the green Spring, 
To gaze upon the wakening fields around ; 

Birds in the thicket sing, 
Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground. 

A thousand odors rise, 
Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dyes. 

Shadowy, and close, and cool, 
The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook ; 

Forever fresh and full, 
Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook ; 

And the soft herbage seems 
Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams. 

Thou, who alone art fair, 
And whom alone I love, art far away. 

Unless thy smile be there, 
It makes me sad to see the earth so gay ; 

I care not if the train 
Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again. 



MARY MAGDALEN. i 99 



MARY MAGDALEN. 



FROM THE SPANISH OF BARTOLOME LEONARDO DE ARGENSOLA. 

Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted ! 
The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn, 
In wonder and in scorn ! 
Thou weepest days of innocence departed ; 

Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move 
The Lord to pity and love. 

The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, 

Even for the least of all the tears that shine 
On that pale cheek of thine. 
Thou didst kneel down, to Him who came from heaven, 
Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise 
Holy, and pure, and wise. 

It is not much that to the fragrant blossom 
The ragged brier should change ; the bitter fir, 
Distil Arabian myrrh ; 
Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom, 

The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain 
Bear home the abundant grain. 

But come and see the bleak and barren mountains 
Thick to their tops with roses : come and see 
Leaves on the dry dead tree. 
The perished plant, set out by living fountains, 
Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise, 
Forever, toward the skies. 



TRANSLA TIONS. 



THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF LUIS PONCE DE LEON. 

Region of life and light ! 
Land of the good whose earthly toils are o'er ! 

Nor frost nor heat may blight 

Thy vernal beauty, fertile shore, 
Yielding thy blessed fruits for evermore. 

There, without crook or sling, 
Walks the good shepherd ; blossoms white and red 

Round his meek temples cling ; 

And to sweet pastures led, 
The flock he loves beneath his eye is fed. 

He guides, and near him they 
Follow delighted, for he makes them go 

Where dwells eternal May, 

And heavenly roses blow, 
Deathless, and gathered but again to grow. 

He leads them to the height 
Named of the infinite and long-sought Good, 

And fountains of delight ; 

And where his feet have stood 
Springs up, along the way, their tender food. 

And when, in the mid skies, 
The climbing sun has reached his highest bound, 

Reposing as he lies, 

With all his flock around, 
He witches the still air with numerous sound. 



FA TIM A AND RAD U AN. 201 

From his sweet lute flow forth 
Immortal harmonies, of power to still 

All passions born of earth, 

And draw the ardent will 
Its destiny of goodness to fulfil. 

Might but a little part, 
A wandering breath of that high melody, 

Descend into my heart, 

And change it till it be 
Transformed and swallowed up, O Love, in thee ! 

Ah ! then my soul should know, 
Beloved ! where thou liest at noon of day, 

And from this place of woe 

Released, should take its way 
To mingle with thy flock and never stray. 



FATIMA AND RADUAN. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

Diamante falso y fingido, 
Engastado en pedernal, etc. 

" False diamond set in flint ! hard heart in haughty breast ! 
By a softer, warmer bosom the tiger's couch is prest. 
Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering as the wind, 
And the restless ever-mounting flame is not more hard to bind. 
If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few would be 
To tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown to me. 
Oh ! I could chide thee sharply — but every maiden knows 
That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes. 



202 



TRANSLA TIONS. 




"Thou hast called me oft the flower ot all Granada's maids, 
Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and fairest fades ; 
And they thought thy heart was mine, and it seemed to every one 
That what thou didst to win my love, for love of me was done. 
Alas ! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know, 
They well might see another mark to which thine arrows go ; 
But thou giv'st me little heed — for I speak to one who knows 
That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes. 



LOVE AND FOLLY. 



203 



" It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and bear 

What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own with care. 

Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah ! thou know'st I feel 

That cruel words as surely kill as sharpest blades of steel. 

'Twas the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my heart with pain ; 

But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again. 

I would proclaim thee as thou art — but every maiden knows 

That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes," 

Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan, 

Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's fountains ran : 

The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was, 

He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus his cause : 

" O lady, dry those star-like eyes — their dimness does me wrong ; 

If my heart be made of flint, at least 'twill keep thy image long ; 

Thou hast uttered cruel words — but I grieve the less for those, 

Since she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes." 



LOVE AND FOLLY. 

FROM LA FONTAINE. 

Love's worshippers alone can know 

The thousand mysteries that are his 
His blazing torch, his twanging bow, 

His blooming age are mysteries. 
A charming science — but the day 

Were all too short to con it o'er ; 
So take of me this little lay, 

A sample of its boundless lore. 



204 TRANSLA TIONS. 

As once, beneath the fragrant shade 

Of myrtles fresh in heaven's pure air, 
The children, Love and Folly, played — 

A quarrel rose betwixt the pair. 
Love said the gods should do him right — 

But Folly vowed to do it then, 
And struck him, o'er the orbs of sight, 

So hard he never saw again. 

His lovely mother's grief was deep, 

She called for vengeance on the deed ; 
A beauty does not vainly weep, 

Nor coldly does a mother plead. 
A shade came o'er the eternal bliss 

That fills the dwellers of the skies ; 
Even stony-hearted Nemesis, 

And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes. 

" Behold," she said, " this lovely boy," 

While streamed afresh her graceful tears, 
" Immortal, yet shut out from joy 

And sunshine, all his future years. 
The child can never take, you see, 

A single step without a staff — 
The hardest punishment would be 

Too lenient for the crime by half." 

All said that Love had suffered wrong, 

And well that wrong should be repaid ; 
Then weighed the public interest long, 

And long the party's interest weighed. 
And thus decreed the court above : 

" Since Love is blind from Folly's blow, 
Let Folly be the guide of Love, 

Where'er the boy may choose to go." 



THE SIESTA. 



205 







THE SIESTA. 



FROM THE SPANISH. 

Vientecico murmurador, 

Que lo gozas y andas todo, etc. 

AlRS, that wander and murmur round, 
Bearing delight where'er ye blow ! 

Make in the elms a lulling sound, 

While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 



206 TRANSLA TIONS. 

Lighten and lengthen her noonday rest, 

Till the heat of the noonday sun is o'er. 
Sweet be her slumbers ! though in my breast 

The pain she has waked may slumber no more. 
Breathing soft from the blue profound, 

Bearing delight where'er ye blow, 
Make in the elms a lulling sound, 

While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 

Airs ! that over the bending boughs, 

And under the shade of pendent leaves, 
Murmur soft, like my timid vows 

Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves — 
Gently sweeping the grassy ground, 

Bearing delight where'er ye blow, 
Make in the elms a lulling sound, 

While my lady sleeps in the shade below. 



THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde, 

The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade. 

The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound, 

With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound. 

He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vain, 

And toward his lady's dwelling he rode with slackened rein ; 

Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third, 

From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard. 

" Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the Moor, 

"Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door. 



THE DEATH OF ALIA TAR. 207 

Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood, 

That one in love with peace should have loved a man of blood ! 

Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight, 

But that thy sword was dreaded in tourney and in fight, 

Ah, thoughtless and unhappy ! that I should fail to see 

How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree. 

Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife 

Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife. 

Say not my voice is magic — thy pleasure is to hear 

The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear. 

Well, follow thou thy choice — to the battle-field away, 

To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they. 

Thrust thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand, 

And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand. 

Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead, 

On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed. 

Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks, 

From Almazan's broad meadows to Sigiienza's rocks. 

Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long, 

And in the life thou lovest, forget whom thou dost wrong. 

These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine own, 

Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone." 

She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry cheek, 

Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak. 



THE DEATH OF ALIATAR. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

'TlS not with gilded sabres 
That gleam in baldricks blue, 

Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez, 
Of gay and gaudy hue — 



2 o8 TRANSLA T/OJVS. 

But, habited in mourning weeds, 

Come marching from afar, 
By four and four, the valiant men 

Who fought with Aliatar. 
All mournfully and slowly 

The afflicted warriors come, 
To the deep wail of the trumpet, 

And beat of muffled drum. 

The banner of the Phcenix, 

The flag that loved the sky, 
That scarce the wind dared wanton with, 

It flew so proud and high — 
Now leaves its place in battle-field, 

And sweeps the ground in grief, 
The bearer drags its glorious folds 

Behind the fallen chief, 
As mournfully and slowly 

The afflicted warriors come, 
To the deep wail of the trumpet, 

And beat of muffled drum. 

Brave Aliatar led forward 

A hundred Moors to go 
To where his brother held Motril 

Against the leaguering foe. 
On horseback went the gallant Moor, 

That gallant band to lead ; 
And now his bier is at the gate, 

From which he pricked his steed. 
While mournfully and slowly 

The afflicted warriors come, 
To the deep wail of the trumpet, 

And beat of muffled drum. 



THE DEATH OF ALIA TAR. 



209 



The knights of the Grand Master 

In crowded ambush lay ; 
They rushed upon him where the reeds 

Were thick beside the way ; 




^SI^^iSs 



They smote the valiant Aliatar, 
They smote the warrior dead, 

And broken, but not beaten, were 
The gallant ranks he led. 



14 



2 1 o TRA NSLA TIOJVS. 

Now mournfully and slowly 
The afflicted warriors come, 

To the deep wail of the trumpet, 
And beat of muffled drum. 

Oh ! what was Zayda's sorrow, 

How passionate her cries ! 
Her lover's wounds streamed not more free 

Than that poor maiden's eyes. 
Say, Love — for didst thou see her tears — 

Oh, no ! he drew more tight 
The blinding fillet o'er his lids 

To spare his eyes the sight. 
While mournfully and slowly 

The afflicted warriors come, 
To the deep wail of the trumpet, 

And beat of muffled drum. 

Nor Zayda weeps him only, 

But all that dwell between 
The great Alhambra's palace-walls 

And springs of Albaicin. 
The ladies weep the flower of knights, 

The brave the bravest here ; 
The people weep a champion, 

The Alcaydes a noble peer. 
While mournfully and slowly 

The afflicted warriors come, 
To the deep wail of the trumpet, 

And beat of muffled drum. 



LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY. 211 



LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY. 



FROM PEYRE VIDAL, THE TROUBADOUR. 



The earth was sown with early flowers, 

The heavens were blue and bright — 
I met a youthful cavalier 

As lovely as the light. 
I knew him not — but in my heart 

His graceful image lies, 
And well I marked his open brow, 

His sweet and tender eyes, 
His ruddy lips that ever smiled, 

His glittering teeth betwixt, 
And flowing robe embroidered o'er, 

With leaves and blossoms mixed. 
He wore a chaplet of the rose ; 

His palfrey, white and sleek, 
Was marked with many an ebon spot, 

And many a purple streak ; 
Of jasper was his saddle-bow, 

His housings sapphire stone, 
And brightly in his stirrup glanced 

The purple calcedon. 
Fast rode the gallant cavalier, 

As youthful horsemen ride ; 
" Peyre Vidal ! know that I am Love," 

The blooming stranger cried ; 
" And this is Mercy by my side, 

A dame of high degree ; 
This maid is Chastity," he said, 

"This squire is Loyalty." 



2 1 2 TRANSLA TIONS. 

THE LOVE OF GOD. 

FROM THE PROVENCAL OF BERNARD RASCAS. 

All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, 
Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye. 
The forms of men shall be as they had never been ; 
The blasted groves shall lose their fresh and tender green ; 
The birds of the thicket shall end their pleasant song, 
And the nightingale shall cease to chant the evening long ; 
The kine of the pasture shall feel the dart that kills, 
And all the fair white flocks shall perish from the hills. 
The goat and antlered stag, the wolf and the fox, 
The wild-boar of the wood, and the chamois of the rocks, 
And the strong and fearless bear, in the trodden dust shall lie 
And the dolphin of the sea, and the mighty whale, shall die. 
And realms shall be dissolved, and empires be no more, 
And they shall bow to death, who ruled from shore to shore ; 
And the great globe itself, so the holy writings tell, 
With the rolling firmament, where the starry armies dwell, 
"Shall melt with fervent heat — they shall all pass away, 
Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye. 



FROM THE SPANISH OF PEDRO DE CASTRO Y 

ANAYA. 

Stay, rivulet, nor haste to leave 

The lovely vale that lies around thee. 
Why wouldst thou be a sea at eve, 

When but a fount the morning found thee ? 



FROM THE SPANISH. 



213 



Born when the skies began to glow, 

Humblest of all the rock's cold daughters, 

No blossom bowed its stalk to show 
Where stole thy still and scanty waters. 




Now on thy stream the noonbeams look, 
Usurping, as thou downward driftest, 

Its crystal from the clearest brook, 
Its rushing current from the swiftest. 



Ah ! what wild haste ! — and all to be 

A river and expire in ocean. 
Each fountain's tribute hurries thee 

To that vast grave with quicker motion. 



2 1 4 TRA NSLA TIONS. 

Far better 'twere to linger still 

In this green vale, these flowers to cherish, 

And die in peace, an aged rill, 

Than thus, a youthful Danube, perish. 



SONNET. 

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF SEMEDO. 

It is a fearful night ; a feeble glare 

Streams from the sick moon in the o'erclouded sky 

The ridgy billows, with a mighty cry, 
Rush on the foamy beaches wild and bare ; 
No bark the madness of the waves will dare ; 

The sailors sleep ; the winds are loud and high. 

Ah, peerless Laura ! for whose love I die, 
Who gazes on thy smiles while I despair ? 

As thus, in bitterness of heart, I cried, 
I turned, and saw my Laura, kind and bright, 

A messenger of gladness, at my side : 
To my poor bark she sprang with footstep light, 

And as we furrowed Tago's heaving tide, 
I never saw so beautiful a night. 



SONG. 



FROM THE SPANISH OF IGLESIAS. 

Alexis calls me cruel : 
The rifted crags that hold 
The gathered ice of winter, 
He says, are not more cold. 



SONG. 



215 




WW 1 



When even the very blossoms 
Around the fountain's brim, 

And forest-walks, can witness 
The love I bear to him. 



216 TRANSLA TIONS. 

I would that I could utter 
My feelings without shame, 

And tell him how I love him, 
Nor wrong my virgin fame. 

Alas ! to seize the moment 
When heart inclines to heart, 

And press a suit with passion, 
Is not a woman's part. 

If man come not to gather 
The roses where they stand, 

They fade among their foliage ; 
They cannot seek his hand. 



THE COUNT OF GREIERS. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

At morn the Count of Greiers before his castle stands ; 
He sees afar the glory that lights the mountain-lands ; 
The horned crags are shining, and in the shade between 
A pleasant Alpine valley lies beautifully green. 

" Oh, greenest of the valleys, how shall I come to thee ! 
Thy herdsmen and thy maidens, how happy must they be ! 
I have gazed upon thee coldly, all lovely as thou art, 
But the wish to walk thy pastures now stirs my inmost heart. 

He hears a sound of timbrels, and suddenly appear 

A troop 'of ruddy damsels and herdsmen drawing near : 

They reach the castle greensward, and gayly dance across ; 

The white sleeves flit and glimmer, the wreaths and ribbons toss. 



THE COUNT OF GREIERS. 217 



The youngest of the maidens, slim as a spray of spring, 

She takes the young count's fingers, and draws him to the ring 

They fling upon his forehead a crown of mountain flowers, 

" And ho, young Count of Greiers ! this morning thou art ours 



Then hand in hand departing, with dance and roundelay, 
Through hamlet after hamlet, they led the count away. 
They dance through wood and meadow, they dance across the linn, 
Till the mighty Alpine summits have shut the music in. 

The second morn is risen, and now the third is come ; 
Where stays the Count of Greiers ? has he forgot his home ? 
Again the evening closes, in thick and sultry air ; 
There's thunder on the mountains, the storm is gathering there. 

The cloud has shed its waters, the brook comes swollen down ; 
You see it by the lightning — a river wide and brown. 
Around a struggling swimmer the eddies dash and roar, 
Till, seizing on a willow, he leaps upon the shore. 

"Here am I cast by tempests far from your mountain-dell. 
Amid our evening dances the bursting deluge fell. 
Ye all, in cots and caverns, have 'scaped the water-spout, 
While me alone the tempest o'erwhelmed and hurried out. 

" Farewell, with thy glad dwellers, green vale among the rocks ! 
Farewell the swift sweet moments, in which I watched thy flocks ! 
Why rocked they not my cradle in that delicious spot, 
That garden of the happy, where Heaven endures me not ? 

" Rose of the Alpine valley ! I feel, in every vein, 
Thy soft touch on my fingers ; oh, press them not again ! 
Bewitch me not, ye garlands, to tread that upward track, 
And thou, my cheerless mansion, receive thy master back." 



2 1 8 TRANSLA TIONS. 



THE SERENADE 



FROM THE SPANISH. 



If slumber, sweet Lisena ! 

Have stolen o'er thine eyes, 
As night steals o'er the glory 

Of spring's transparent skies ; 

Wake, in thy scorn and beauty, 

And listen to the strain 
That murmurs my devotion, 

That mourns for thy disdain. 

Here, by thy door at midnight, 

I pass the dreary hour, 
With plaintive sounds profaning 

The silence of thy bower ; 

A tale of sorrow cherished 

Too fondly to depart, 
Of wrong from love the flatterer 

And my own wayward heart. 

Twice, o'er this vale, the seasons 
Have brought and borne away, 

The January tempest, 
The genial wind of May ; 

Yet still my plaint is uttered, 
My tears and sighs are given 

To earth's unconscious waters, 
And wandering winds of heaven. 



THE SERENADE. 219 

I saw, from this fair region, 

The smile of summer pass, 
And myriad frost-stars glitter 

Among the russet grass ; 

While winter seized the streamlets 

That fled along the ground, 
And fast in chains of crystal 

The truant murmurers bound. 

I saw that to the forest 

The nightingales had flown, 
And every sweet-voiced fountain 

Had hushed its silver tone. 

The maniac winds, divorcing 

The turtle from his mate, 
Raved through the leafy beeches, 

And left them desolate. 

Now, May, with life and music, 

The blooming valley fills, 
And rears her flowery arches 

For all the little rills. 

The minstrel bird of evening 

Comes back on joyous wings, 
And, like the harp's soft murmur, 

Is heard the gush of springs. 

And deep within the forest 

Are wedded turtles seen, 
Their nuptial chambers seeking, 

Their chambers close and green. 



220 TRANSLA TIONS. 

The rugged trees are mingling 
Their flowery sprays in love ; 

The ivy climbs the laurel, 
To clasp the boughs above. 

They change — but thou, Lisena, 
Art cold while I complain : 

Why to thy lover only 

Should spring return in vain ? 



A NORTHERN LEGEND 

FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. 

There sits a lovely maiden, 
The ocean murmuring nigh ; 

She throws the hook, and watches ; 
The fishes pass it by. 

A ring, with a red jewel, 
Is sparkling on her hand ; 

Upon the hook she binds it, 
And flings it from the land. 

Uprises from the water 

A hand like ivory fair. 
What gleams upon its finger ? 

The golden ring is there. 

Uprises from the bottom 

A young and handsome knight ; 

In golden scales he rises, 
That glitter in the light. 



A NORTHERN LEGEND. 



221 




The maid is pale with terror — 
" Nay, Knight of Ocean, nay, 

It was not thou I wanted ; 
Let go the ring, I pray." 



222 TRANSLA TIONS, 

" Ah, maiden, not to fishes 
The bait of gold is thrown ; 

Thy ring shall never leave me, 
And thou must be my own.' 



THE PARADISE OF TEARS. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF N. MUELLER. 

Beside the River of Tears, with branches low, 
And bitter leaves, the weeping-willows grow ; 
The branches stream like the dishevelled hair 
Of women in the sadness of despair. 

On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh ; 
The rocks moan wildly as it passes by ; 
Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand, 
And not a flower adorns the dreary land. 

Then comes a child, whose face is like the sun, 
And dips the gloomy waters as they run, 
And waters all the region, and behold 
The ground is bright with blossoms manifold. 

Where fall the tears of love the rose appears, 

And where the ground is bright with friendship's tears, 

Forget-me-not, and violets, heavenly blue, 

Spring, glittering with the cheerful drops like dew. 

The souls of mourners, all whose tears are dried, 
Like swans, come gently floating down the tide, 
Walk up the golden sands by which it flows, 
And in that Paradise of Tears repose. 



THE LADY OF CASTLE WLNDECK. 

There every heart rejoins its kindred heart ; 
There, in a long embrace that none may part, 
Fulfilment meets desire, and that fair shore 
Beholds its dwellers happy evermore. 



223 



THE LADY OF CASTLE WINDECK. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF CHAMISSO. 

REIN in thy snorting charger ! 

That stag but cheats thy sight ; 
He is luring thee on to Windeck, 

With his seeming fear and flight. 

Now, where the mouldering turrets 

Of the outer gate arise, 
The knight gazed over the ruins 

Where the stag was lost to his eyes. 

The sun shone hot above him ; 

The castle was still as death ; 
He wiped the sweat from his forehead, 

With a deep and weary breath. 

" Who now will bring me a beaker 
Of the rich old wine that here, 

In the choked-up vaults of Windeck, 
Has lain for many a year ? " 

The careless words had scarcely 

Time from his lips to fall, 
When the Lady of Castle Windeck, 

Came round the ivy-wall. 



224 



TRANSLA TIONS. 




" He saw the glorious maiden 

Tn her snow-white drapery stand.' 



THE LADY OF CASTLE WINDECK. 

He saw the glorious maiden 

In her snow-white drapery stand, 

The bunch of keys at her girdle, 
The beaker high in her hand. 

He quaffed that rich old vintage ; 

With an eager lip he quaffed ; 
But he took into his bosom 

A fire with the grateful draught. 

Her eyes' unfathomed brightness ! 

The flowing gold of her hair ! 
He folded his hands in homage, 

And murmured a lover's prayer. 

She gave him a look of pity, 

A gentle look of pain ; 
And, quickly as he had seen her, 

She passed from his sight again. 

And ever, from that moment, 
He haunted the ruins there, 

A sleepless, restless wanderer, 
A watcher with despair. 

Ghost-like and pale he wandered, 
With a dreamy, haggard eye ; 

He seemed not one of the living, 
And yet he could not die. 

'Tis said that the lady met him, 
When many years had past, 

And kissing his lips, released him 
From the burden of life at last. 
15 



225 



LATER POEMS 



TO THE APENNINES. 



YOUR peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines ! 

In the soft light of these serenest skies ; 
From the broad highland region, black with pines, 

Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise, 
Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves behold 
In rosy flushes on the virgin gold. 

There, rooted to the aerial shelves that wear 
The glory of a brighter world, might spring 

Sweet flowers of heaven to scent the unbreathed air, 
And heaven's fleet messengers might rest the wing 

To view the fair earth in its summer sleep, 

Silent, and cradled by the glimmering deep. 

Below you lie men's sepulchres, the old 
Etrurian tombs, the graves of yesterday ; 

The herd's white bones lie mixed with human mould, 
Yet up the radiant steeps that I survey 

Death never climbed, nor life's soft breath, with pain, 

Was yielded to the elements again. 

Ages of war have filled these plains with fear ; 

How oft the hind has started at the clash 
Of spears, and yell of meeting armies here, 

Or seen the lightning of the battle flash 
From clouds, that rising with the thunder's sound, 
Hung like an earth-born tempest o'er the ground ! 



23° 



LATER POEMS. 




Ah me ! what armed nations — Asian horde, 
And Libyan host, the Scythian and the Gaul — 

Have swept your base and through your passes poured, 
Like ocean-tides uprising at the call 



EARTH. 

Of tyrant winds — against your rocky side 

The bloody billows dashed, and howled, and died ! 

How crashed the towers before beleaguering foes, 
Sacked cities smoked and realms were rent in twain ; 

And commonwealths against their rivals rose, 

Trode out their lives and earned the curse of Cain ! 

While, in the noiseless air and light that flowed 

Round your fair brows, eternal Peace abode. 

Here pealed the impious hymn, and altar-flames 
Rose to false gods, a dream-begotten throng, 

Jove, Bacchus, Pan, and earlier, fouler names ; 
While, as the unheeding ages passed along, 

Ye, from your station in the middle skies, 

Proclaimed the essential Goodness, strong and wise. 

In you the heart that sighs for freedom seeks 
Her image ; there the winds no barrier know, 

Clouds come and rest and leave your fairy peaks ; 
W T hile even the immaterial Mind, below, 

And Thought, her winged offspring, chained by power, 

Pine silently for the redeeming hour. 



231 



EARTH. 



A midnight black with clouds is in the sky; 
I seem to feel, upon my limbs, the weight 
Of its vast brooding shadow. All in vain 
Turns the tired eye in search of form ; no star 
Pierces the pitchy veil ; no ruddy blaze, 
From dwellings lighted by the cheerful hearth, 
Tinges the flowering summits of the grass. 



232 LATER POEMS. 

No sound of life is heard, no village hum, 

Nor measured tramp of footstep in the path, 

Nor rush of wind, while, on the breast of Earth, 

I lie and listen to her mighty voice : 

A voice of many tones — sent up from streams 

That wander through the gloom, from woods unseen 

Swayed by the sweeping of the tides of air, 

From rocky chasms where darkness dwells all day, 

And hollows of the great invisible hills, 

And sands that edge the ocean, stretching far 

Into the night — a melancholy sound ! 

O Earth ! dost thou too sorrow for the past 
Like man thy offspring ? Do I hear thee mourn 
Thy childhood's unreturning hours, thy springs 
Gone with their genial airs and melodies. 
The gentle generations of thy flowers. 
And thy majestic groves of olden time, 
Perished with all their dwellers ? Dost thou wail 
For that fair age of which the poets tell, 
Ere yet the winds grew keen with frost, or fire 
Fell with the rains or spouted from the hills, 
To blast thy greenness, while the virgin night 
Was guiltless and salubrious as the day ? 
Or haply dost thou grieve for those that die — 
For living things that trod thy paths awhile, 
The love of thee and heaven — and now they sleep 
Mixed with the shapeless dust on which thy herds 
Trample and graze ? I too must grieve with thee, 
O'er loved ones lost. Their graves are far away 
Upon thy mountains ; yet, while I recline 
Alone, in darkness, on thy naked soil, 
The mighty nourisher and burial-place 
Of man, I feel that I embrace their dust. 



EARTH. 

Ha ! how the murmur deepens ! I perceive 
And tremble at its dreadful import. Earth 
Uplifts a general cry for guilt and wrong, 
And heaven is listening. The forgotten graves 
Of the heart-broken utter forth their plaint. 
The dust of her who loved and was betrayed, 
And him who died neglected in his age ; 
The sepulchres of those who for mankind 
Labored, and earned the recompense of scorn ; 
Ashes of martyrs for the truth, and bones 
Of those who, in the strife for liberty, 
Were beaten down, their corses given to dogs, 
Their names to infamy, all find a voice. 
The nook in which the captive, overtoiled, 
Lay down to rest at last, and that which holds 
Childhood's sweet blossoms, crushed by cruel hands, 
Send up a plaintive sound. From battle-fields, 
Where heroes madly drave and dashed their hosts 
Against each other, rises up a noise, 
As if the armed multitudes of dead 
Stirred in their heavy slumber. Mournful tones 
Come from the green abysses of the sea — 
A story of the crimes the guilty sought 
To hide beneath its waves. The glens, the groves, 
Paths in the thicket, pools of running brook, 
And banks and depths of lake, and streets and lanes 
Of cities, now that living sounds are hushed, 
Murmur of guilty force and treachery. 

Here, where I rest, the vales of Italy 
Are round me, populous from early time, 
And field of the tremendous warfare waged 
'Twixt good and evil. Who, alas ! shall dare 
Interpret to man's ear the mingled voice 



233 



234 



LATER POEMS, 

That comes from her old dungeons yawning now 
To the black air, her amphitheatres, 
Where the dew gathers on the mouldering stones, 
And fanes of banished gods, and open tombs, 
And roofless palaces, and streets and hearths 
Of cities dug from their volcanic graves ? 
I hear a sound of many languages, 
The utterance of nations now no more, 
Driven out by mightier, as the days of heaven 
Chase one another from the sky. The blood 
Of freemen shed by freemen, till strange lords 
Came in their hour of weakness, and made fast 
The yoke that yet is worn, cries out to Heaven. 

What then shall cleanse thy bosom, gentle Earth, 
From all its painful memories of guilt ? 
The whelming flood, or the renewing fire, 
Or the slow change of time ? — that so, at last, 
The horrid tale of perjury and strife, 
Murder and spoil, which men call history, 
May seem a fable, like the inventions told 
By poets of the gods of Greece. O thou, 
Who sittest far beyond the Atlantic deep, 
Among the sources of thy glorious streams, 
My native Land of Groves ! a newer page 
In the great record of the world is thine ; 
Shall it be fairer ? Fear, and friendly Hope, 
And Envy, watch the issue, while the lines, 
By which thou shalt be judged, are written down. 



THE KNIGHTS EPITAPH 235 



THE KNIGHT'S EPITAPH. 

This is the church which Pisa, great and free, 
Reared to St. Catharine. How the time-stained walls, 
That earthquakes shook not from their poise, appear 
To shiver in the deep and voluble tones 
Rolled from the organ ! Underneath my feet 
There lies the lid of a sepulchral vault. 
The image of an armed knight is graven 
Upon it, clad in perfect panoply — 
Cuishes, and greaves, and cuirass, with barred helm, 
Gauntleted hand, and sword, and blazoned shield. 
Around, in Gothic characters, worn dim 
By feet of worshippers, are traced his name, 
And birth, and death, and words of eulogy. 
Why should I pore upon them ? This old tomb, 
This effigy, the strange disused form 
Of this inscription, eloquently show 
His history. Let me clothe in fitting words 
The thoughts they breathe, and frame his epitaph : 

" He whose forgotten dust for centuries 
Has lain beneath this stone, was one in whom 
Adventure, and endurance, and emprise, 
Exalted the mind's faculties and strung 
The body's sinews. Brave he was in fight, 
Courteous in banquet, scornful of repose, 
And bountiful, and cruel, and devout, 
And quick to draw the sword in private feud, 
He pushed his quarrels to the death, yet prayed 
The saints as fervently on bended knees 
As ever shaven cenobite. He loved 
As fiercely as he fought. He would have borne 



236 LATER POEMS. 

The maid that pleased him from her bower by night 

To his hill-castle, as the eagle bears 

His victim from the fold, and rolled the rocks 

On his pursuers. He aspired to see 

His native Pisa queen and arbitress 

Of cities : earnestly for her he raised 

His voice in council, and affronted death 

In battle-field, and climbed the galley's deck, 

And brought the captured flag of Genoa back, 

Or piled upon the Arno's crowded quay 

The glittering spoils of the tamed Saracen. 

He was not born to brook the stranger's yoke, 

But would have joined the exiles that withdrew 

Forever, when the Florentine broke in 

The gates of Pisa, and bore off the bolts 

For trophies — but he died before that day. 

" He lived, the impersonation of an age 
That never shall return. His soul of fire 
Was kindled by the breath of the rude time 
He lived in. Now a gentler race succeeds, 
Shuddering at blood ; the effeminate cavalier 
Turning his eyes from the reproachful past, 
And from the hopeless future, gives to ease 
And love, and music, his inglorious life." 



THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 

Ay, this is freedom ! — these pure skies 
Were never stained with village smoke : 

The fragrant wind, that through them flies, 
Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. 



THE HUNTER OF THE PRAIRIES. 



237 










Here, with my rifle and my steed, 
And her who left the world for me, 

I plant me, where the red deer feed 
In the green desert — and am free. 

For here the fair savannas know 
No barriers in the bloomy grass ; 

Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, 
Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. 



238 LATER POEMS. 

In pastures, measureless as air, 
The bison is my noble game ; 

The bounding elk, whose antlers tear 
The branches, falls before my aim. 

Mine are the river-fowl that scream 

From the long stripe of waving sedge ; 
The bear that marks my weapon's gleam, 

Hides vainly in the forest's edge ; 
In vain the she-wolf stands at bay ; 

The brinded catamount, that lies 
High in the boughs to watch his prey, 

Even in the act of springing, dies. 

With what free growth the elm and plane 

Fling their huge arms across my way, 
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train 

Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray ! 
Free stray the lucid streams, and find 

No taint in these fresh lawns and shades ; 
Free spring the flowers that scent the wind 

Where never scythe has swept the glades. 

Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere 

The heavy herbage of the ground, 
Gathers his annual harvest here, 

With roaring like the battle's sound. 
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, 

And smoke-streams gushing up the sky 
I meet the flames with flames again, 

And at my door they cower and die. 

Here, from dim woods, the aged past 
Speaks solemnly ; and I behold 

The boundless future in the vast 
And lonely river, seaward rolled. 



SE VENT Y-SIX. 239 

Who feeds its founts with rain and dew ; 

Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, 
And trains the bordering vines, whose blue 

Bright clusters tempt me as I pass ? 

Broad are these streams — my steed obeys, 

Plunges, and bears me through the tide. 
Wide are these woods — I thread the maze 

Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. 
I hunt till day's last glimmer dies 

O'er woody vale and grassy height ; 
And kind the voice and glad the eyes 

That welcome my return at night. 



SEVENTY-SIX. 

What heroes from the woodland sprung, 

When, through the fresh-awakened land, 
The thrilling cry of freedom rung, 
And to the work of warfare strung 
The yeoman's iron hand ! 

Hills flung the cry to hills around, 

And ocean-mart replied to mart, 
And streams, whose springs were yet unfound, 
Pealed far away the startling sound 

Into the forest's heart. 

Then marched the brave from rocky steep, 

From mountain-river swift and cold ; 
The borders of the stormy deep, 
The vales where gathered waters sleep, 
Sent up the strong and bold — 



240 LATER POEMS. 

As if the very earth again 

Grew quick with God's creating breath, 
And, from the sods of grove and glen, 
Rose ranks of lion-hearted men 

To battle to the death. 

The wife, whose babe first smiled that day, 

The fair fond bride of yestereve, 
And aged sire and matron gray, 
Saw the loved warriors haste away, 
And deemed it sin to grieve. 

Already had the strife begun ; 

Already blood, on Concord's plain, 
Along the springing grass had run, 
And blood had flowed at Lexington, 

Like brooks of April rain. 

That death-stain on the vernal sward 
Hallowed to freedom all the shore ; 
In fragments fell the yoke abhorred — 
The footstep of a foreign lord 
Profaned the soil no more. 



THE LIVING LOST. 

Matron ! the children of whose love, 
Each to his grave, in youth had passed 

And now the mould is heaped above 
The dearest and the last ! 



THE LIVING LOST. 24.1 

Bride ! who dost wear the widow's veil 
Before the wedding flowers are pale ! 
Ye deem the human heart endures 
No deeper, bitterer grief than yours. 

Yet there are pangs of keener woe, 

Of which the sufferers never speak, 
Nor to the world's cold pity show 

The tears that scald the cheek, 
Wrung from their eyelids by the shame 
And guilt of those they shrink to name. 
Whom once they loved with cheerful will, 
And love, though fallen and branded, still. 

Weep, ye who sorrow for the dead, 

Thus breaking hearts their pain relieve.. 
And reverenced are the tears ye shed, 

And honored ye who grieve. 
The praise of those who sleep in earth, 
The pleasant memory of their worth, 
The hope to meet when life is past, 
Shall heal the tortured mind at last. 

But ye, who for the living lost 

That agony in secret bear, 
Who shall with soothing words accost 

The strength of your despair ? 
Grief for your sake is scorn for them 
Whom ye lament and all condemn ; 
And o'er the world of spirits lies 
A gloom from which ye turn your eyes. 



242 LATER POEMS. 



CATTERSKILL FALLS. 

Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps, 
From cliffs where the wood-flower clings ; 

All summer he moistens his verdant steeps 

With the sweet light spray of the mountain-springs, 

And he shakes the woods on the mountain-side, 

When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide. 

But when, in the forest bare and old, 

The blast of December calls, 
He builds, in the starlight clear and cold, 

A palace of ice where his torrent falls, 
With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair, 
And pillars blue as the summer air. 

For whom are those glorious chambers wrought, 

In the cold and cloudless night ? 
Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought 

In forms so lovely, and hues so bright ? 
Hear what the gray-haired woodmen tell 
Of this wild stream and its rocky dell : 

'Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood, 

A hundred winters ago, 
Had wandered over the mighty wood, 

When the panther's track was fresh on the snow, 
And keen were the winds that came to stir 
The long dark boughs of the hemlock-fir. 

Too gentle of mien he seemed and fair, 

For a child of those rugged steeps ; 
His home lay low in the valley where 

The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps : 



CATTER SKILL FALLS. 



243 




1 Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps." 



244 LATER POEMS. 

But he wore the hunter's frock that day, 
And a slender gun on his shoulder lay. 

And here he paused, and against the trunk 

Of a tall gray linden leant, 
When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk, 

From his path in the frosty firmament, 
And over the round dark edge of the hill 
A cold green light was quivering still. 

And the crescent moon, high over the green, 

From a sky of crimson shone, 
On that icy palace, whose towers were seen 

To sparkle as if with stars of their own, 
While the water fell with a hollow sound, 
'Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around. 

Is that a being of life, that moves 
Where the crystal battlements rise ? 

A maiden watching the moon she loves, 
At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes ? 

Was that a garment which seemed to gleam 

Betwixt the eye and the falling stream ? 

'Tis only the torrent tumbling o'er, 
In the midst of those glassy walls, 

Gushing, and plunging, and beating the floor 
Of the rocky basin in which it falls. 

'Tis only the torrent — but why that start ? 

Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart? 

He thinks no more of his home afar, 

Where his sire and sister wait. 
He heeds no longer how star after star 

Looks forth on the night as the hour grows late, 



CATTERSKILL FALLS. 245 

He heeds not the snow-wreaths, lifted and cast 
From a thousand boughs, by the rising blast. 

His thoughts are alone of those who dwell 

In the halls of frost and snow, 
Who pass where the crystal domes upswell 

From the alabaster floors below, 
Where the frost-trees shoot with leaf and spray, 
And frost-gems scatter a silvery day. 

" And oh that those glorious haunts were mine ! " 

He speaks, and throughout the glen 
Thin shadows swim in the faint moonshine, 

And take a ghastly likeness of men, 
As if the slain by the wintry storms 
Came forth to the air in their earthly forms. 

There pass the chasers of seal and whale, 

With their weapons quaint and grim, 
And bands of warriors in glittering mail, 

And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb, 
There are naked arms, with bow and spear, 
And furry gauntlets the carbine rear. 

There are mothers — and oh, how sadly their eyes 

On their children's white brows rest ! 
There are youthful lovers — the maiden lies, 

In a seeming sleep, on the chosen breast ; 
There are fair wan women with moonstruck air, 
The snow-stars flecking their long loose hair. 

They eye him not as they pass along, 

But his hair stands up with dread, 
When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng, 

Till those icy turrets are over his head, 



246 LATER POEMS. 

And the torrent's roar as they enter seems 
Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams. 

The glittering threshold is scarcely passed, 
When there gathers and wraps him round 

A thick white twilight, sullen and vast, 
In which there is neither form nor sound ; 

The phantoms, the glory, vanish all, 

With the dying voice of the waterfall. 

Slow passes the darkness of that trance, 
And the youth now faintly sees 

Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance 
On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees, 

And walls where the skins of beasts are hung, 

And rifles glitter on antlers strung. 

On a couch of shaggy skins he lies ; 

As he strives to raise his head, 
Hard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes, 

Come round him and smooth his furry bed, 
And bid him rest, for the evening star 
Is scarcely set and the day is far. 

They had found at eve the dreaming one 

By the base of that icy steep, 
When over his stiffening limbs begun 

The deadly slumber of frost to creep, 
And they cherished the pale and breathless form, 
Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm. 



THE STRANGE LADY. 247 



THE STRANGE LADY. 

The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by, 
As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky ; 
Young Albert, in the forest's edge, has heard a rustling sound, 
An arrow slightly strikes his hand and falls upon the ground. 

A dark-haired woman from the wood comes suddenly in sight ; 
Her merry eye is full and black, her cheek is brown and bright ; 
Her gown is of the mid-sea blue, her belt with beads is strung, 
And yet she speaks in gentle tones, and in the English tongue : 

" It was an idle bolt I sent, against the villain crow; 

Fair sir, I fear it harmed thy hand ; beshrew my erring bow ! " 

" Ah ! would that bolt had not been spent ! then, lady, might I wear 

A lasting token on my hand of one so passing fair ! " 

" Thou art a flatterer like the rest, but wouldst thou take with me 
A day of hunting in the wild beneath the greenwood tree, 
I know where most the pheasants feed, and where the red-deer herd, 
And thou shouldst chase the nobler game, and I bring down the bird. 

Now Albert in her quiver lays the arrow in its place, 

And wonders as he gazes on the beauty of her face : 

" Those hunting-grounds are far away, and, lady, 'twere not meet 

That night, amid the wilderness, should overtake thy feet." 

" Heed not the night ; a summer lodge amid the wild is mine — 
'Tis shadowed by the tulip-tree, 'tis mantled by the vine ; 
The wild-plum sheds its yellow fruit from fragrant thickets nigh, 
And flowery prairies from the door stretch till they meet the sky. 



248 



LATER POEMS. 




" There in the boughs that hide the roof the mock-bird sits and sings, 
And there the hang-bird's brood within its little hammock swings ; 
A pebbly brook, where rustling winds among the hopples sweep, 
Shall lull thee till the morning sun looks in upon thy sleep." 



Away, into the forest depths by pleasant paths they go, 

He with his rifle on his arm, the lady with her bow, 

Where cornels arch their cool dark boughs o'er beds of wintergreen, 

And never at his father's door again was Albert seen. 



LIFE. 249 

That night upon the woods came down a furious hurricane, 
With howl of winds and roar of streams, and beating of the rain ; 
The mighty thunder broke and drowned the noises in its crash ; 
The old trees seemed to fight like fiends beneath the lightning-flash. 

Next day, within a mossy glen, 'mid mouldering trunks were found 
The fragments of a human form upon the bloody ground ; 
White bones from which the flesh was torn, and locks of glossy hair ; 
They laid them in the place of graves, yet wist not whose they were. 

And whether famished evening wolves had mangled Albert so, 

Or that strange dame so gay and fair were some mysterious foe, 

Or whether to that forest-lodge, beyond the mountains blue, 

He went to dwell with her, the friends who mourned him never knew. 



LIFE. 

Life ! I breathe thee in the breeze, 
I feel thee bounding in my veins, 

1 see thee in the stretching trees, 

These flowers, this still rock's mossy stains. 

This stream of odors flowing by 
From clover-field and clumps of pine, 

This music, thrilling all the sky, 

From all the morning birds, are thine. 

Thou fill'st with joy this little one, 

That leaps and shouts beside me here, 

Where Isar's clay-white rivulets run 

Through the dark woods like frighted deer. 



250 



LATER POEMS. 



Ah ! must thy mighty breath, that wakes 
Insect and bird, and flower and tree, 

From the low-trodden dust, and makes 
Their daily gladness, pass from me — 




Pass, pulse by pulse, till o'er the ground 

These limbs, now strong, shall creep with pain, 

And this fair world of sight and sound 
Seem fading into night again ? 






LIFE. 251 

The things, O Life! thou quickenest, all 
Strive upward toward the broad bright sky. 

Upward and outward, and they fall 
Back to earth's bosom when they die. 

All that have borne the touch of death, 

All that shall live, lie mingled there, 
Beneath that veil of bloom and breath, 

That living zone 'twixt earth and air. 

There lies my chamber dark and still, 

The atoms trampled by my feet 
There wait, to take the place I fill 

In the sweet air and sunshine sweet. 

Well, I have had my turn, have been 

Raised from the darkness of the clod, 
And for a glorious moment seen 

The brightness of the skirts of God ; 

And knew the light within my breast, 

Though wavering oftentimes and dim, 
The power, the will, that never rest, 

And cannot die, were all from him. 

Dear child ! I know that thou wilt grieve 

To see me taken from thy love, 
Wilt seek my grave at Sabbath eve 

And weep, and scatter flowers above. 

Thy little heart will soon be healed, 

And being shall be bliss, till thou 
To younger forms of life must yield 

The place thou fill'st with beauty now. 



252 LATER POEMS. 

When we descend to dust again, 
Where will the final dwelling be 

Of thought and all its memories then, 
My love for thee, and thine for me ? 



"EARTH'S CHILDREN CLEAVE TO EARTH." 

Earth's children cleave to Earth — her frail 

Decaying children dread decay. 
Yon wreath of mist that leaves the vale 

And lessens in the morning ray — 
Look, how, by mountain rivulet, 

It lingers as it upward creeps, 
And clings to fern and copsewood set 

Along the green and dewy steeps : 
Clings to the flowery kalmia, clings 

To precipices fringed with grass, 
Dark maples where the wood-thrush sings, 

And bowers of fragrant sassafras. 
Yet all in vain — it passes still 

From hold to hold, it cannot stay, 
And in the very beams that fill 

The world with glory, wastes away, 
Till, parting from the mountain's brow, 

It vanishes from human eye, 
And that which sprung of earth is now 

A portion of the glorious sky. 



THE HUNTER'S VISION. 253 



THE HUNTER'S VISION. 

Upon a rock that, high and sheer, 
Rose from the mountain's breast, 

A weary hunter of the deer 
Had sat him down to rest, 

And bared to the soft summer air 

His hot red brow and sweaty hair. 

All dim in haze the mountains lay, 
With dimmer vales between ; 

And rivers glimmered on their way 
By forests faintly seen ; 

While ever rose a murmuring sound 

From brooks below and bees around. 

He listened, till he seemed to hear 

A strain, so soft and low, 
That whether in the mind or ear 

The listener scarce might know. 
With such a tone, so sweet, so mild, 
The watching mother lulls her child. 

" Thou weary huntsman," thus it said, 
" Thou faint with toil and heat, 

The pleasant land of rest is spread 
Before thy very feet, 

And those whom thou wouldst gladly see 

Are waiting there to welcome thee." 

He looked, and 'twixt the earth and sky, 

Amid the noontide haze, 
A shadowy region met his eye, 

And grew beneath his gaze, 



254 LATER POEMS. 

As if the vapors of the air 

Had gathered into shapes so fair. 

Groves freshened as he looked, and flowers 
Showed bright on rocky bank, 

And fountains welled beneath the bowers, 
Where deer and pheasant drank. 

He saw the glittering streams, he heard 

The rustling bough and twittering bird. 

And friends, the dead, in boyhood dear, 
There lived and walked again, 

And there was one who many a year 
Within her grave had lain, 

A fair young girl, the hamlet's pride — 

His heart was breaking when she died : 

Bounding, as was her wont, she came 
Right toward his resting-place, 

And stretched her hand, and called his name 
With that sweet smiling face. 

Foward with fixed and eager eyes, 

The hunter leaned, in act to rise : 

Forward he leaned, and headlong down 
Plunged from that craggy wall ; 

He saw the rocks, steep, stern, and brown, 
An instant, in his fall ; 

A frightful instant — and no more, 

The dream and life at once were o'er. 



THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS. 255 



THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS. 



Here halt we our march, and pitch our tent 

On the rugged forest-ground, 
And light our fire with the branches rent 

By winds from the beeches round. 
Wild storms have torn this ancient wood, 

But a wilder is at hand, 
With hail of iron and rain of blood, 

To sweep and waste the land. 



How the dark wood rings with our voices shrill, 

That startle the sleeping bird ; 
To-morrow eve must the voice be still, 

And the step must fall unheard. 
The Briton lies by the blue Champlain, 

In Ticonderoga's towers, 
And ere the sun rise twice again, 

Must they and the lake be ours. 



Fill up the bowl from the brook that glides 

Where the fire-flies light the brake ; 
A ruddier juice the Briton hides 

In his fortress by the lake. 
Build high the fire, till the panther leap 

From his lofty perch in flight, 
And we'll strengthen our weary arms with sleep 

For the deeds of to-morrow night. 



256 LATER POEMS. 



A PRESENTIMENT. 

" O father, let us hence — for hark, 
A fearful murmur shakes the air ; 

The clouds are coming swift and dark ; — 
What horrid shapes they wear ! 

A winged giant sails the sky ; 

O father, father, let us fly ! " 

" Hush, child ; it is a grateful sound, 
That beating of the summer shower ; 

Here, where the boughs hang close around, 
We'll pass a pleasant hour, 

Till the fresh wind, that brings the rain, 

Has swept the broad heaven clear again." 

" Nay, father, let us haste — for see, 
That horrid thing with horned brow — 

His wings o'erhang this very tree, 
He scowls upon us now ; 

His huge black arm is lifted high ; 

O father, father, let us fly ! " 

" Hush, child ; " but, as the father spoke, 
Downward the livid fire-bolt came, 

Close to his ear the thunder broke, 
And, blasted by the flame, 

The child lay dead ; while dark and still 

Swept the grim cloud along the hill. 



THE CHILD'S FUNERAL. 257 



THE CHILD'S FUNERAL. 

FAIR is thy sight, Sorrento, green thy shore, 

Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue skies ; 

The sea, whose borderers ruled the world of yore, 
As clear and bluer still before thee lies. 

Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire, 
Outgushing, drowned the cities on his steeps ; 

And murmuring Naples, spire o'ertopping spire, 
Sits on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps. 

Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue, 

Prank her green breast when April suns are bright ; 

Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue, 
Or like the mountain-frost of silvery white. 

Currents of fragrance, from the orange-tree, 
And sward of violets, breathing to and fro, 

Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea, 
Refresh the idle boatsman where they blow. 

Yet even here, as under harsher climes, 

Tears for the loved and early lost are shed ; 

That soft air saddens with the funeral-chimes, 
Those shining flowers are gathered for the dead. 

Here once a child, a smiling playful one, 
All the day long caressing and caressed, 

Died when its little tongue had just begun 
To lisp the names of those it loved the best. 
17 



: 5 8 



LATER POEMS. 




And there he sits alive, and gay ly shakes, 
In his full hands, the blossoms red and white." 



THE CHILD'S FUNERAL. 259 

The father strove his struggling grief to quell, 

The mother wept as mothers use to weep, 
Two little sisters wearied them to tell 

When their dear Carlo would awake from sleep. 

Within an inner room his couch they spread, 
His funeral-couch ; with mingled grief and love, 

They laid a crown of roses on his head, 

And murmured, " Brighter is his crown above." 

They scattered round him, on the snowy sheet, 

Laburnum's strings of sunny-colored gems, 
Sad hyacinths, and violets dim and sweet, 

And orange-blossoms on their dark-green stems. 

And now the hour is come, the priest is there ; 

Torches are lit and bells are tolled ; they go, 
With solemn rites of blessing and of prayer, 

To lay the little one in earth below. 

The door is opened ; hark ! that quick glad cry ; 

Carlo has waked, has waked, and is at play ; 
The little sisters laugh and leap, and try 

To climb the bed on which the infant lay. 

And there he sits alive, and gayly shakes, 

In his full hands, the blossoms red and white, 
And smiles with winking eyes, like one who wakes 

From long deep slumbers at the morning light. 



260 LATER POEMS. 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 



ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 

And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encountered in the battle-cloud. 

Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of her brave- 
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, 
Upon the soil they fought to save. 

Now all is calm, and fresh, and still ; 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 
And talk of children on the hill, 

And bell of wandering kine, are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain 
Men start not at the battle-cry, — 

Oh, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 
Who minglest in the harder strife 

For truths which men receive not now, 
Thy warfare only ends with life. 

A friendless warfare !. lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year ; 

A wild and many-weaponed throng 
Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear, 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 



261 




A nd talk 0/ children on the /it'll, 

A nd bell of "wandering kine, are heard.'' 



262 LATER POEMS. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 
And blench not at thy chosen lot, 

The timid good may stand aloof, 

The sage may frown— yet faint thou not. 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, 
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 

For with thy side shall dwell, at last, 
The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again ; 

Th' eternal years of God are hers ; 
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 

And dies among his worshippers. 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, 

When they who helped thee flee in fear, 

Die full of hope and manly trust, 
Like those who fell in battle here. 

Another hand thy sword shall wield, 
Another hand the standard wave, 

Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed 
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 



THE FUTURE LIFE. 

How shall I know thee in the sphere which keeps 
The disembodied spirits of the dead, 

When all of thee that time could wither sleeps 
And perishes among the dust we tread ? 



THE FUTURE LIFE. 263 

For I shall feel the sting of ceaseless pain 

If there I meet thy gentle presence not ; 
Nor hear the voice I love, nor read again 

In thy serenest eyes the tender thought. 

Will not thy own meek heart demand me there ? 

That heart whose fondest throbs to me were given — 
My name on earth was ever in thy prayer, 

And wilt thou never utter it in heaven ? 

In meadows fanned by heaven's life-breathing wind, 

In the resplendence of that glorious sphere, 
And larger movements of the unfettered mind, 

Wilt thou forget the love that joined us here? 

The love that lived through all the stormy past, 

And meekly with my harsher nature bore, 
And deeper grew, and tenderer to the last, 

Shall it expire with life, and be no more ? 

A happier lot than mine, and larger light, 

Await thee there, for thou hast bowed thy will 

In cheerful homage to the rule of right, 
And lovest all, and renderest good for ill. 

For me, the sordid cares in which I dwell 

Shrink and consume my heart as heat the scroll ; 

And wrath has left its scar — that fire of hell 
Has left its frightful scar upon my soul. 

Yet, though thou wear'st the glory of the sky, 

Wilt thou not keep the same beloved name, 
The same fair thoughtful brow, and gentle eye, 

Lovelier in heaven's sweet climate, yet the same ? 



264 LATER POEMS. 

Shalt thou not teach me, in that calmer home, 
The wisdom that I learned so ill in this — 

The wisdom which is love — till I become 
Thy fit companion in that land of bliss ? J 



THE DEATH OF SCHILLER. 

'TlS said, when Schiller's death drew nigh, 
The wish possessed his mighty mind 

To wander forth wherever lie 

The homes and haunts of human kind. 

Then strayed the poet, in his dreams, 
By Rome and Egypt's ancient graves ; 

Went up the New World's forest-streams, 
Stood in the Hindoo's temple-caves ; 

Walked with the Pawnee, fierce and stark, 
The sallow Tartar, midst his herds, 

The peering Chinese, and the dark 
False Malay, uttering gentle words. 

How could he rest ? even then he trod 
The threshold of the world unknown ; 

Already, from the seat of God, 
A ray upon his garments shone ; — 

Shone and awoke the strong desire 

For love and knowledge reached not here, 

Till, freed by death, his soul of fire 
Sprang to a fairer, ampler sphere. 



THE FOUNTAIN. 26s 



THE FOUNTAIN. 

Fountain, that springest on this grassy slope, 
Thy quick cool murmur mingles pleasantly, 
With the cool sound of breezes in the beech, 
Above me in the noontide. Thou dost wear 
No stain of thy dark birthplace ; gushing up 
From the red mould and slimy roots of earth, 
Thou flashest in the sun. The mountain-air, 
In winter, is not clearer, nor the dew 
That shines on mountain-blossom. Thus doth God 
Bring, from the dark and foul, the pure and bright. 

This tangled thicket on the bank above 
Thy basin, how thy waters keep it green ! 
For thou dost feed the roots of the wild-vine 
That trails all over it, and to the twigs 
Ties fast her clusters. There the spice-bush lifts 
Her leafy lances ; the viburnum there, 
Paler of foliage, to the sun holds up 
Her circlet of green berries. In and out 
The chipping-sparrow, in her coat of brown, 
Steals silently lest I should mark her nest. 

Not such thou wert of yore, ere yet the axe 
Had smitten the old woods. Then hoary trunks 
Of oak, and plane, and hickory, o'er thee held 
A mighty canopy. When April winds 
Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush 
Of scarlet flowers. The tulip-tree, high up, 
Opened, in airs of June, her multitude 
Of golden chalices to humming-birds 
And silken-winged insects of the sky. 



266 LATER POEMS. 

Frail wood-plants clustered round thy edge in spring ; 
The liver-leaf put' forth her sister blooms 
Of faintest blue. Here the quick-footed wolf, 
Passing to lap thy waters, crushed the flower 
Of sanguinaria, from whose brittle stem 
The red drops fell like blood. The deer, too, left 
Her delicate footprint in the soft moist mould, 
And on the fallen leaves. The slow-paced bear, 
In such a sultry summer noon as this, 
Stopped at thy stream, and drank, and leaped across. 

But thou hast histories that stir the heart 
With deeper feeling ; while I look on thee 
They rise before me. I behold the scene 
Hoary again with forests ; I behold 
The Indian warrior, whom a hand unseen 
Has smitten with his death-wound in the woods, 
Creep slowly to thy well-known rivulet, 
And slake his death-thirst. Hark, that quick fierce cry 
That rends the utter silence ! 'tis the whoop 
Of battle, and a throng of savage men 
With naked arms and faces stained like blood, 
Fill the green wilderness ; the long bare arms 
Are heaved aloft, bows twang and arrows stream ; 
Each makes a tree his shield, and every tree 
Sends forth its arrow. Fierce the fight and short, 
As is the whirlwind. Soon the conquerors 
And conquered vanish, and the dead remain 
Mangled by tomahawks. The mighty woods 
Are still again, the frighted bird comes back 
And plumes her wings ; but thy sweet waters run 
Crimson with blood. Then, as the sun goes down, 
Amid the deepening twilight I descry 
Figures of men that crouch and creep unheard, 



THE FOUNTAIN. 



267 






gpifp^ 




^4 nd loud the black-eyed I?idian 7)iaidens laugh." 



268 LATER POEMS. 

And bear away the dead. The next day's shower 
Shall wash the tokens of the fight away. 

I look again — a hunter's lodge is built, 
With poles and boughs, beside thy crystal well, 
While the meek autumn stains the woods with gold, 
And sheds his golden sunshine. To the door 
The red-man slowly drags the enormous bear 
Slain in the chestnut-thicket, or flings down 
The deer from his strong shoulders. Shaggy fells 
Of wolf and cougar hang upon the walls, 
And loud the black-eyed Indian maidens laugh, 
That gather, from the rustling heaps of leaves, 
The hickory's white nuts, and the dark fruit 
That falls from the gray butternut's long boughs. 

So centuries passed by, and still the woods 
Blossomed in spring, and reddened when the year 
Grew chill, and glistened in the frozen rains 
Of winter, till the white man swung the axe 
Beside thee — signal of a mighty change. 
Then all around was heard the crash of trees, 
Trembling awhile and rushing to the ground, 
The low of ox, and shouts of men who fired 
The brushwood, or who tore the earth with ploughs : 
The grain sprang thick and tall, and hid in green 
The blackened hill-side ; ranks of spiky maize 
Rose like a host embattled ; the buckwheat 
Whitened broad acres, sweetening with its flowers 
The August wind. White cottages were seen 
With rose-trees at the windows ; barns from which 
Came loud and shrill the crowing of the cock ; 
Pastures where rolled and neighed the lordly horse, 
And white flocks browsed and bleated. A rich turf 



THE FOUNTAIN, 



269 




" . . . . Blue-eyed girls 
Brought pails, and dipped them in thy crystal pool " 



270 LATER POEMS. 

Of grasses brought from far o'ercrept thy bank, 
Spotted with the white clover. Blue-eyed girls 
Brought pails, and dipped them in thy crystal pool ; 
Arid children, ruddy-cheeked and flaxen-haired, 
Gathered the glistening cowslip from thy edge. 

Since then, what steps have trod thy border ! Here 
On thy green bank, the woodman of the swamp 
Has laid his axe, the reaper of the hill 
His sickle, as they stooped to taste thy stream. 
The sportsman, tired with wandering in the still 
September noon, has bathed his heated brow 
In thy cool current. Shouting boys, let loose 
For a wild holiday, have quaintly shaped 
Into a cup the folded linden-leaf, 
And dipped thy sliding crystal. From the wars 
Returning, the plumed soldier by thy side 
Has sat, and mused how pleasant 'twere to dwell 
In such a spot, and be as free as thou, 
And move for no man's bidding more. At eve, 
When thou wert crimson with the crimson sky, 
Lovers have gazed upon thee, and have thought 
Their mingled lives should flow as peacefully 
And brightly as thy waters. Here the sage, 
Gazing into thy self-replenished depth, 
Has seen eternal order circumscribe 
And bound the motions of eternal change, 
And from the gushing of thy simple fount 
Has reasoned to the mighty universe. 

Is there no other change for thee, that lurks 
Among the future ages ? Will not man 
Seek out strange arts to wither and deform 
The pleasant landscape which thou makest green ? 



THE WINDS. 271 



Or shall the veins that feed thy constant stream 
Be choked in middle earth, and flow no more 
For ever, that the water-plants along 
Thy channel perish, and the bird in vain 
Alight to drink ? Haply shall these green hills 
Sink, with the lapse of years, into the gulf 
Of ocean-waters, and thy source be lost 
Amidst the bitter brine ? Or shall they rise, 
Upheaved in broken cliffs and airy peaks, 
Haunts of the eagle and the snake, and thou 
Gush midway from the bare and barren steep ? 



THE WINDS. 



Ye winds, ye unseen currents of the air, 

Softly ye played a few brief hours ago ; 
Ye bore the murmuring bee ; ye tossed the air 

O'er maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow ; 
Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths of blue 
Ye shook from shaded flowers the lingering dew ; 
Before you the catalpa's blossoms flew, 

Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like snow. 



What change is this ! Ye take the cataract's sound 
Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might ; 

The mountain shudders as ye sweep the ground ; 
The valley woods lie prone beneath your flight. 



272 LATER POEMS. 

The clouds before you shoot like eagles past : 
The homes of men are rocking in your blast ; 
Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast, 
Skyward, the whirling fragments out of sight. 

III. 

The weary fowls of heaven make wing in vain, 

To escape your wrath ; ye seize and dash them dead 
Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain ; 
The harvest-field becomes a river's bed ; 
And torrents tumble from the hills around, 
Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned, 
And wailing voices, midst the tempest's sound, 
Rise, as the rushing waters swell and spread. 

IV. 

Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard 
A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray ; 

Ye fling its floods around you, as a bird 

Flings o'er his shivering plumes the fountain's spray, 

See ! to the breaking mast the sailor clings ; 

Ye scoop the ocean to its briny springs, 

And take the mountain-billow on your wings, 
And pile the wreck of navies round the bay. 

v. 

Why rage ye thus ? — no strife for liberty 

Has made you mad ; no tyrant, strong through fear, 

Has chained your pinions till ye wrenched them free, 
And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere ; 

For ye were born in freedom where ye blow ; 

Free o'er the mighty deep to come and go ; 

Earth's solemn woods were yours, her wastes of snow, 
Her isles where summer blossoms all the year. 



THE WINDS. 



273 




VI. 



O ye wild winds ! a mightier power than yours 

In chains upon the shore of Europe lies ; 
The sceptred throng whose fetters he endures 

Watch his mute throes with terror in their eyes 
And armed warriors all around him stand, 
And, as he struggles, tighten every band, 
And lift the heavy spear, with threatening hand, 
To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise. 
18 



274 LATER POEMS. 



VII. 



Yet oh, when that wronged Spirit of our race 

Shall break, as soon he must, his long-worn chains, 
And leap in freedom from his prison-place, 

Lord of his ancient hills and fruitful plains, 
Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air, 
To waste the loveliness that time could spare, 
To fill the earth with woe, and blot her fair 

Unconscious breast with blood from human veins. 



VIII. 



But may he like the spring-time come abroad, 

Who crumbles winter's gyves with gentle might, 
When in the genial breeze, the breath of God, 

The unsealed springs come spouting up to light ; 
Flowers start from their dark prisons at his feet, 
The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnings sweet, 
And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almost meet, 
Crowd back to narrow bounds the ancient night. 



THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL. 

Among our hills and valleys, I have known 
Wise and grave men, who, while their diligent hands 
Tended or gathered in the fruits of earth, 
Were reverent learners in the solemn school 
Of Nature. Not in vain to them were sent 
Seed-time and harvest, or the vernal shower 



THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL. 

That darkened the brown tilth, or snow that beat 
On the white winter hills. Each brought, in turn, 
Some truth, some lesson on the life of man, 
Or recognition of the Eternal mind 
Who veils his glory with the elements. 

One such I knew long since, a white-haired man, 
Pithy of speech, and merry when he would ; 
A genial optimist, who daily drew 
From what he saw his quaint moralities. 
Kindly he held communion, though so old, 
With me a dreaming boy, and taught me much 
That books tell not, and I shall ne'er forget. 

The sun of May was bright in middle heaven, 
And steeped the sprouting forests, the green hills, 
And emerald wheat-fields, in his yellow light. 
Upon the apple-tree, where rosy buds 
Stood clustered, ready to burst forth in bloom, 
The robin warbled forth his full clear note 
For hours, and wearied not. Within the woods, 
Whose young and half-transparent leaves scarce cast 
A shade, gay circles of anemones 

Danced on their stalks ; the shad-bush, white with flowers, 
Brightened the glens ; the new-leaved butternut 
And quivering poplar to the roving breeze 
Gave a balsamic fragrance. In the fields 
I saw the pulses of the gentle wind 
On the young grass. My heart was touched with joy 
At so much beauty, flushing every hour 
Into a fuller beauty ; but my friend, 
The thoughtful ancient, standing at my side, 
Gazed on it mildly sad. I asked him why. 



275 



276 LATER POEMS. 

" Well mayst thou join in gladness," he replied, 
" With the glad earth, her springing plants and flowers, 
And this soft wind, the herald of the green 
Luxuriant summer. Thou art young like them, 
And well mayst thou rejoice. But while the flight 
Of seasons fills and knits thy spreading frame, 
It withers mine, and thins my hair, and dims 
These eyes, whose fading light shall soon be quenched 
In utter darkness. Hearest thou that bird ? " 

I listened, and from midst the depth of woods 
Heard the love-signal of the grouse, that wears 
A sable ruff around his mottled neck ; 
Partridge they call him by our northern streams, 
And pheasant by the Delaware. He beat 
His barred sides with his speckled wings, and made 
A sound like distant thunder ; slow the strokes 
At first, then fast and faster, till at length 
They passed into a murmur and were still. 

" There hast thou," said my friend, "a fitting type 
Of human life. 'Tis an old truth, I know, 
But images like these revive the power 
Of long-familiar truths. Slow pass our days 
In childhood, and the hours of light are long 
Betwixt the morn and eve ; with swifter lapse 
They glide in manhood, and in age they fly ; 
Till days and seasons flit before the mind 
As flit the snow-flakes in a winter storm, 
Seen rather than distinguished. Ah ! I seem 
As if I sat within a helpless bark, 
By swiftly-running waters hurried on 
To shoot some mighty cliff. Along the banks 
Grove after grove, rock after frowning rock, 



THE OLD MAN'S COUNSEL. 



277 



Bare sands and pleasant homes, and flowery nooks, 
And isles and whirlpools in the stream, appear 
Each after each, but the devoted skiff 




Darts by so swiftly that their images 
Dwell not upon the mind, or only dwell 
In dim confusion ; faster yet I sweep 
By other banks, and the great gulf is near. 



278 LATER POEMS. 

" Wisely, my son, while yet thy days are long, 
And this fair change of seasons passes slow, 
Gather and treasure up the good they yield — 
All that they teach of virtue, of pure thoughts 
And kind affections, reverence for thy God 
And for thy brethren ; so when thou shalt come 
Into these barren years, thou mayst not bring 
A mind unfurnished and a withered heart. "J 

Long since that white-haired ancient slept — but still, 
When the red flower-buds crowd the orchard-bough, 
And the ruffed grouse is drumming far within 
The woods, his venerable form again 
Is at my side, his voice is in my ear. 



IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM LEGGETT. 

The earth may ring, from shore to shore, 
With echoes of a glorious name, 

But he, whose loss our tears deplore, 
Has left behind him more than fame. 

For when the death-frost came to lie 
On Leggett's warm and mighty heart, 

And quench his bold and friendly eye, 
His spirit did not all depart. 

The words of fire that from his pen 
Were flung upon the fervid page, 

Still move, still shake the hearts of men, 
Amid a cold and coward age. 



AN EVENING RE VERY. 279 

His love of truth, too warm, too strong 

For Hope or Fear to chain or chill, 
His hate of tyranny and wrong, 

Burn in the breasts he kindled still. 



AN EVENING REVERY. 

The summer day is closed — the sun is set ; 
Well they have done their office, those bright hours, 
The latest of whose train goes softly out 
In the red west. The green blade of the ground 
Has risen, and herds have cropped it ; the young twig 
Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun ; 
Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown 
And withered ; seeds have fallen upon the soil, 
From bursting cells, and in their graves await 
Their resurrection. Insects from the pools 
Have filled the air awhile with humming wings, 
That now are still forever ; painted moths 
Have wandered the blue sky, and died again ; 
The mother-bird hath broken for her brood 
Their prison shell, or shoved them from the nest, 
Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves, 
In woodland cottages with barky walls, 
In noisome cells of the tumultuous town, 
Mothers have clasped with joy the new-born babe. 
Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore 
Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways 
Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out 
And filled, and closed. This day hath parted friends 



280 



LATER POEMS. 




" . . . . This day hath parted friends 
That ne } er before were parted" 



AN EVENING RE VERY. 281 

That ne'er before were parted ; it hath knit 

New friendships ; it hath seen the maiden plight 

Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long 

Had wooed ; and it hath heard, from lips which late 

Were eloquent of love, the first harsh word, 

That told the wedded one her peace was flown. 

Farewell to the sweet sunshine ! One glad day 

Is added now to Childhood's merry days, 

And one calm day to those of quiet Age. 

Still the fleet hours run on ; and as I lean, 

Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit, 

By those who watch the dead, and those who twine 

Flowers for the bride. The mother from the eyes 

Of her sick infant shades the painful light, 

And sadly listens to his quick-drawn breath. 

O thou great Movement of the Universe, 
Or Change, or Flight of Time — for ye are one ! 
That bearest, silently, this visible scene 
Into night's shadow and the streaming rays 
Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me ? 
I feel the mighty current sweep me on, 
Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar 
The courses of the stars ; the very hour 
He knows when they shall darken or grow bright ; 
Yet doth the eclipse of Sorrow and of Death 
Come unforewarned. Who next, of those I love, 
Shall pass from life, or, sadder yet, shall fall 
From virtue ? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife 
With friends, or shame and general scorn of men — 
Which who can bear ? — or the fierce rack of pain — 
Lie they within my path ? Or shall the years 
Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace, 
Into the stilly twilight of my age ? 



282 LATER POEMS. 

Or do the portals of another life 

Even now, while I am glorying in my strength, 

Impend around me ? Oh ! beyond that bourne, 

In the vast cycle of being which begins 

At that dread threshold, with what fairer forms 

Shall the great law of change and progress clothe 

Its workings ? Gently — so have good men taught- 

Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide 

Into the new ; the eternal flow of things, 

Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, 

Shall journey onward in perpetual peace. 



THE PAINTED CUP. 

The fresh savannas of the Sangamon 
Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass 
Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts 
Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire ; 
The wanderers of the prairie know them well, 
And call that brilliant flower the Painted Cup. 

Now, if thou art a poet, tell me not 
That these bright chalices were tinted thus 
To hold the dew for fairies, when they meet 
On moonlight evenings in the hazel-bowers, 
And dance till they are thirsty. Call not up, 
Amid this fresh and virgin solitude, 
The faded fancies of an elder world ; 
But leave these scarlet cups to spotted moths 
Of June, and glistening flies, and humming-birds, 
To drink from, when on all these boundless lawns 
The morning- sun looks hot. Or let the wind 



A BREAM. 283 

O'erturn in sport their ruddy brims, and pour 
A sudden shower upon the strawberry-plant, 
To swell the reddening fruit that even now 
Breathes a slight fragrance from the sunny slope. 

But thou art of a gayer fancy. Well — 
Let then the gentle Manitou of flowers, 
Lingering amid the bloomy waste he loves, 
Though all his swarthy worshippers are gone — 
Slender and small, his rounded cheek all brown 
And ruddy with the sunshine ; let him come 
On summer mornings, when the blossoms wake, 
And part with little hands the spiky grass, 
And touching, with his cherry lips, the edge 
Of these bright beakers, drain the gathered dew. 



A DREAM. 



I had a dream — a strange, wild dream — 

Said a dear voice at early light ; 
And even yet its shadows seem 

To linger in my waking sight. 

Earth, green with spring, and fresh with dew, 
And bright with morn, before me stood ; 

And airs just wakened softly blew 
On the young blossoms of the wood. 

Birds sang within the sprouting shade, 
Bees hummed amid the whispering grass, 

And children prattled as they played 
Beside the rivulet's dimpling glass. 



284 LATER POEMS. 

Fast climbed the sun : the flowers were flown, 
There played no children in the glen ; 

For some were gone, and some were grown 
To blooming dames and bearded men. 

'Twas noon, 'twas summer : I beheld 
Woods darkening in the flush of day, 

And that bright rivulet spread and swelled, 
A mighty stream, with creek and bay. 

And here was love, and there was strife, 
And mirthful shouts, and wrathful cries, 

And strong men, struggling as for life, 
With knotted limbs and angry eyes. 

Now stooped the sun — the shades grew thin ; 

The rustling paths were piled with leaves, 
And sunburnt groups were gathering in, 

From the shorn field, its fruits and sheaves. 

The river heaved with sullen sounds ; 

The chilly wind was sad with moans ; 
Black hearses passed, and burial-grounds 

Grew thick with monumental stones. 

Still waned the day ; the wind that chased 
The jagged clouds blew chiller yet ; 

The woods were stripped, the fields were waste 
The wintry sun was near his set. 

And of the young, and strong, and fair, 
A lonely remnant, gray and weak, 

Lingered, and shivered to the air 

Of that bleak shore and water bleak. 



THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 285 

Ah ! age is drear, and death is cold ! 

I turned to thee, for thou wert near, 
And saw thee withered, bowed, and old, 

And woke all faint with sudden fear. 

'Twas thus I heard the dreamer say, 

And bade her clear her clouded brow ; 
" For thou and I, since childhood's day, 

Have walked in such a dream till now. 

" Watch we in calmness, as they rise, 

The changes of that rapid dream, 
And note its lessons, till our eyes 

Shall open in the morning beam." 



THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 

Here are old trees, tall oaks, and gnarled pines, 
That stream with gray-green mosses ; here the ground 
Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up 
Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet 
To linger here, among the flitting birds 
And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds 
That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass, 
A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set 
With pale-blue berries. In these peaceful shades — 
Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old — 
My thoughts go up the long dim path of years, 
Back to the earliest days of liberty. 

O Freedom ! thou art not, as poets dream, 
A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, 



286 



LATER POEMS. 




" Here are old trees ; fo// 0#&y, and gnarled pines.' 1 ' 1 



THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 287 

And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 

With which the Roman master crowned his slave 

When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, 

Armed to the teeth, art thou ; one mailed hand 

Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy brow, 

Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred 

With tokens of old wars ; thy massive limbs 

Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched 

His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee ; 

They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven ; 

Merciless Power has dug thy dungeon deep, 

And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires, 

Have forged thy chain ; yet, while he deems thee bound, 

The links are shivered, and the prison-walls 

Fall outward ; terribly thou springest forth, 

As springs the flame above a burning pile, 

And shoutest to the nations, who return 

Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. 

Thy birthright was not given by human hands : 
Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, 
While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him, 
To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars, 
And teach the reed to utter simple airs. 
Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, 
Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, 
His only foes ; and thou with him didst draw 
The earliest furrow on the mountain-side, 
Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself, 
Thy enemy, although of reverend look, 
Hoary with many years, and far obeyed, 
Is later born than thou ; and as he meets 
The grave defiance of thine elder eye, 
The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. 



288 LATER POEMS. 

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years, 
But he shall fade into a feeble age — 
Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares, 
And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap 
His withered hands, and from their ambush call 
His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send 
Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms 
To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words 
To charm thy ear ; while his sly imps, by stealth, 
Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread, 
That grow to fetters ; or bind down thy arms 
With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh ! not yet 
Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by 
Thy sword ; nor yet, O Freedom ! close- thy lids, 
In slumber ; for thine enemy never sleeps, 
Arid thou must watch and combat till the day 
Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest 
Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men. 
These old and friendly solitudes invite 
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest-trees 
Were young upon the unviolated earth, 
And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new, 
Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced. 



THE MAIDEN'S SORROW. 

Seven long years has the desert rain 
Dropped on the clods that hide thy face 

Seven long years of sorrow and pain 
I have thought of thy burial-place ; 



THE MAIDEN'S SORROW. 



289 




There, when the winter -woods are bare, 
Walks the -wolf on the crackling snozu. 



19 



2go LATER POEMS. 

Thought of thy fate in the distant West, 
Dying with none that loved thee near, 

They who flung the earth on thy breast 
Turned from the spot without a tear. 

There, I think, on that lonely grave 
Violets spring in the soft May shower ; 

There, in the summer breezes, wave 
Crimson phlox and moccasin-flower. 

There the turtles alight, and there 
Feeds with her fawn the timid doe ; 

There, when the winter woods are bare, 
Walks the wolf on the crackling snow. 

Soon wilt thou wipe my tears away ; 

All my task upon earth is done ; 
My poor father, old and gray, 

Slumbers beneath the churchyard stone. 

In the dreams of my lonely bed, 
Ever thy form before me seems, 

All night long I talk with the dead, 
All day long I think of my dreams. 



T 



This deep wound that bleeds and aches, 
This long pain, a sleepless pain — 

When the Father my spirit takes, 
I shall feel it no more again. 



THE RETURN OF YOUTH. 291 



THE RETURN OF YOUTH. 

My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime, 

For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight ; 
Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time 

Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light — 
Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong, 

And quick the thought that moved thy tongue to speak, 
And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong 

Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek. 

Thou lookest forward on the coming days, 

Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep : 
A path, thick-set with changes and decays, 

Slopes downward to the place of common sleep ; 
And they who walked with thee in life's first stage, 

Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near, 
Thou seest the sad companions of thy age — 

Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear. 

Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone, 

Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die. 
Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn, 

Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky ; 
Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides 

Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour ; 
Waits, like the vanished Spring, that slumbering bides 

Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower. 

There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand 
On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet 

Than when at first he took thee by the hand, 
Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet. 



292 LATER POEMS. 

He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still, 
Life's early glory to thine eyes again, 

Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill 
Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then. 

Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here, 

Of mountains where immortal morn prevails ? 
Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear 

A gentle rustling of the morning gales ; 
A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore, 

Of streams that water banks forever fair, 
And voices of the loved ones gone before, 

More musical in that celestial air? 



A HYMN OF THE SEA. 

The sea is mighty, but a mightier sways 
His restless billows. Thou, whose hands have scooped 
His boundless gulfs and built his shore, thy breath, 
That moved in the beginning o'er his face, 
Moves o'er it evermore. The obedient waves 
To its strong motion roll, and rise and fall. 
Still from that realm of rain thy cloud goes up, 
As at the first, to Water the great earth, 
And keep her valleys green. A hundred realms 
Watch its broad shadow warping on the wind, 
And in the dropping shower, with gladness hear 
Thy promise of the harvest. I look forth 
Over the boundless blue, where joyously 
The bright crests of innumerable waves 
Glance to the sun at once, as when the hands 



A HYMN OF THE SEA. 



293 



Of a great multitude are upward flung 

In acclamation. I behold the ships 

Gliding from cape to cape, from isle to isle, 

Or stemming toward far lands, or hastening home 





From the Old World. It is thy friendly breeze 
That bears them, with the riches of the land, 
And treasure of dear lives, till, in the port, 
The shouting seaman climbs and furls the sail. 



294 LATER POEMS. 

But who shall bide thy tempest, who shall face 
The blast that wakes the fury of the sea ? 
O God ! thy justice makes the world turn pale, 
When on the armed fleet, that royally 
Bears down the surges, carrying war, to smite 
Some city, or invade some thoughtless realm, 
Descends the fierce tornado. The vast hulks 
Are whirled like chaff upon the waves ; the sails 
Fly, rent like webs of gossamer ; the masts 
Are snapped asunder ; downward from the decks, 
Downward are slung, into the fathomless gulf, 
Their cruel engines ; and their hosts, arrayed 
In trappings of the battle-field, are whelmed 
By whirlpools or dashed dead upon the rocks. 
Then stand the nations still with awe, and pause, 
A moment, from the bloody work of war. 

These restless surges eat away the shores 
Of earth's old continents ; the fertile plain 
Welters in shallows, headlands crumble down, 
And the tide drifts the sea-sand in the streets 
Of the drowned city. Thou, meanwhile, afar 
In the green chambers of the middle sea, 
Where broadest spread the waters and the line 
Sinks deepest, while no eye beholds thy work, 
Creator ! thou dost teach the coral-worm 
To lay his mighty reefs. From age to age, 
He builds beneath the waters, till, at last, 
His bulwarks overtop the brine, and check 
The long wave rolling from the southern pole 
To break upon Japan. Thou bidd'st the fires, 
That smoulder under ocean, heave on high 
The new-made mountains, and uplift their peaks, 
A place of refuge for the storm-driven bird. 



NOON. 295 

The birds and wafting billows plant the rifts 

With herb and tree ; sweet fountains gush ; sweet airs 

Ripple the living lakes that, fringed with flowers, 

Are gathered in the hollows. Thou dost look 

On thy creation and pronounce it good. 

Its valleys, glorious in their summer green, 

Praise thee in silent beauty, and its woods, 

Swept by the murmuring winds of ocean, join 

The murmuring shores in a perpetual hymn. 



NOON. 



FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 

'Tis noon. At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee 
And worshipped, while the husbandmen withdrew 
From the scorched field, and the wayfaring man 
Grew faint, and turned aside by bubbling fount. 
Or rested in the shadow of the palm. 

I, too, amid the overflow of day, 
Behold the power which wields and cherishes 
The frame of Nature. From this brow of rock- 
That overlooks the Hudson's western marge, 
I gaze upon the long array of groves, 
The piles and gulfs of verdure drinking in 
The grateful heats. They love the fiery sun ; 
Their broadening leaves grow glossier, and their sprays 
Climb as he looks upon them. In the midst, 
The swelling river, into his green gulfs, 



296 



LATER POEMS. 



Unshadowed save by passing sails above, 

Takes the redundant glory, and enjoys 

The summer in his chilly bed. Coy flowers 

That would not open in the early light, 

Push back their plaited sheaths. The rivulet's pool, 

That darkly quivered all the morning long 

In the cool shade, now glimmers in the sun ; 

And o'er its surface shoots, and shoots again, 

The glittering dragon-fly, and deep within 

Run the brown water-beetles to and fro. 




A silence, the brief sabbath of an hour, 
Reigns o'er the fields ; the laborer sits within 
His dwelling ; he has left his steers awhile, 
Unyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dog 
Sleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the shade. 
Now the gray marmot, with uplifted paws, 
No more sits listening by his den, but steals 



NOON. 297 



Abroad, in safety, to the clover-field, 

And crops its juicy blossoms. All the while 

A ceaseless murmur from the populous town 

Swells o'er these solitudes ; a mingled sound 

Of jarring wheels, and iron hoofs that clash 

Upon the stony ways, and hammer-clang, 

And creak of engines lifting ponderous bulks, 

And calls and cries, and tread of eager feet, 

Innumerable, hurrying to and fro. 

Noon, in that mighty mart of nations, brings 

No pause to toil and care. With early day 

Began the tumult, and shall only cease 

When midnight, hushing one by one the sounds 

Of bustle, gathers the tired brood to rest. 

Thus, in this feverish time, when love of gain 
And luxury possess the hearts of men, 
Thus is it with the noon of human life. 
We, in our fervid manhood, in our strength 
Of reason, we, with hurry, noise, and care, 
Plan, toil, and strive, and pause not to refresh 
Our spirits with the calm and beautiful 
Of God's harmonious universe, that won 
Our youthful wonder ; pause not to inquire 
Why we are here ; and what the reverence 
Man owes to man, and what the mystery 
That links us to the greater world, beside 
Whose borders we but hover for a space. 



298 LATER POEMS. 



THE CROWDED STREET. 

Let me move slowly through the street, 

Filled with an ever-shifting train, 
Amid the sound of steps that beat 

The murmuring walks like autumn rain. 

How fast the Hitting figures come ! 

The mild, the fierce, the stony face ; 
Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some 

Where secret tears have left their trace. 

They pass — to toil, to strife, to rest ; 

To halls in which the feast is spread ; 
To chambers where the funeral guest 

In silence sits beside the dead. 

And some to happy homes repair, 
Where children, pressing cheek to cheek, 

With mute caresses shall declare 
The tenderness they cannot speak. 

And some, who walk in calmness here, 
Shall shudder as they reach the door 

Where one who made their dwelling dear, 
Its flower, its light, is seen no more. 

Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, 
And dreams of greatness in thine eye ! 

Go'st thou to build an early name, 
Or early in the task to die ? 



THE CROWDED STREET. 



299 



Ti rr^. y. . .iiam 1 I 1 EflffSK» ' 



■ -. 





". . . . The street, 
Filled with an ever-shifting trait. 



300 LATER POEMS. 

Keen son of trade, with eager brow ! 

Who is now fluttering in thy snare ? 
Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, 

Or melt the glittering spires in air ? 

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread 
The dance till daylight gleam again ? 

Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead ? 
Who writhe in throes of mortal pain ? 

Some, famine-struck, shall think how long 
The cold dark hours, how slow the light ; 

And some, who flaunt amid the throng, 
Shall hide in dens of shame to-night. 

Each, where his tasks or pleasures call, 
They pass, and heed each other not. 

There is who heeds, who holds them all, 
In His large love and boundless thought. 

/These struggling tides of life that seem 

In wayward, aimless course to tend, 
Are eddies of the mighty stream 
That rolls to its appointed end) 



THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER. 

It was a hundred years ago, 
When, by the woodland ways, 

The traveller saw the wild-deer drink, 
Or crop the birchen sprays. 



THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER. 301 

Beneath a hill, whose rocky side 

O'erbrowed a grassy mead, 
And fenced a cottage from the wind, 

A deer was wont to feed. 

She only came when on the cliffs 

The evening moonlight lay, 
And no man knew the secret haunts 

In which she walked by day. 

White were her feet, her forehead showed 

A spot of silvery white, 
That seemed to glimmer like a star 

In autumn's hazy night. 

And here, when sang the whippoorwill, 

She cropped the sprouting leaves, 
And here her rustling steps were heard 

On still October eves. 

But when the broad midsummer moon 

Rose o'er that grassy lawn, 
Beside the silver-footed deer 

There grazed a spotted fawn. 

The cottage dame forbade her son 

To aim the rifle here ; 
" It were a sin," she said, " to harm 

Or fright that friendly deer. 

" This spot has been my pleasant home 

Ten peaceful years and more ; 
And ever, when the moonlight shines, 

She feeds before our door. 



302 



LATER POEMS. 




hW0§. 



" The red-men say that here she walked 

A thousand moons ago ; 
They never raise the war-whoop here, 

And never twang the bow. 



" I love to watch her as she feeds, 
And think that all is well 

While such a gentle creature haunts 
The place in which we dwell." 



THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER. 303 

The youth obeyed, and sought for game 

In forests far away, 
Where, deep in silence and in moss 

The ancient woodland lay. 

But once, in autumn's golden time, 

He ranged the wild in vain, 
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer, 

And wandered home again. 

The crescent moon and crimson eve 

Shone with a mingling light ; 
The deer, upon the grassy mead, 

Was feeding full in sight. 

He raised the rifle to his eye, 

And from the cliffs around 
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp, 

Gave back its deadly sound. 

Away, into the neighboring wood, 

The startled creature flew, 
And crimson drops at morning lay 

Amid the glimmering dew. 

Next evening shone the waxing moon 

As brightly as before ; 
The deer upon the grassy mead 

Was seen again no more. 

But ere that crescent moon was old, 

By night the red-men came, 
And burnt the cottage to the ground, 

And slew the youth and dame. 



304 LATER POEMS. 

Now woods have overgrown the mead, 

And hid the cliffs from sight ; 
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon, 
And prowls the fox at night. 



THE WANING MOON. 

I've watched too late ; the morn is near ; 

One look at God's broad silent sky ! 
On, hopes and wishes vainly dear, 

How in your very strength ye die ! 

Even while your glow is on the cheek, 
And scarce the high pursuit begun, 

The heart grows faint, the hand grows weak, 
The task of life is left undone. 

See where, upon the horizon's brim, 
Lies the still cloud in gloomy bars ; 

The waning moon, all pale and dim, 
Goes up amid the eternal stars. 

Late, in a flood of tender light, 

She floated through the ethereal blue, 

A softer sun, that shone all night 
Upon the gathering beads of dew. 

And still thou wanest, pallid moon ! 

The encroaching shadow grows apace ; 
Heaven's everlasting watchers soon 

Shall see thee blotted from thy place. 



THE WANING MOON 



305 



O Night's dethroned and crownless queen ! 

Well may thy sad, expiring ray 
Be shed on those whose eyes have seen 

Hope's glorious visions fade away. 




Shine thou for forms that once were bright, 

For sages in the mind's eclipse, 
For those whose words were spells of might, 

But falter now on stammering lips ! 



In thy decaying beam there lies 

Full many a grave on hill and plain, 

Of those who closed their dying eyes 
In grief that they had lived in vain. 
20 



306 LATER POEMS. 



Another night, and thou among 

The spheres of heaven shalt cease to shine, 
All rayless in the glittering throng 

Whose lustre late was quenched in thine. 

Yet soon a new and tender light 

From out thy darkened orb shall beam, 

And broaden till it shines all night 

On glistening dew and glimmering stream. 



THE STREAM OF LIFE. 

Oh silvery streamlet of the fields, 

That flowest full and free, 
For thee the rains of spring return, 

The summer dews for thee ; 
And when thy latest blossoms die 

In autumn's chilly showers, 
The winter fountains gush for thee, 

Till May brings back the flowers. 

O Stream of Life ! the violet springs 

But once beside thy bed ; 
But one brief summer, on thy path, 

The dews of heaven are shed. 
Thy parent fountains shrink away, 

And close their crystal veins, 
And where thy glittering current flowed 

The dust alone remains. 



THE UNKNOWN WAY. 307 



THE UNKNOWN WAY. 

A BURNING sky is o'er me, 

The sands beneath me glow, 
As onward, onward, wearily, 

In the sultry morn I go. 

From the dusty path there opens, 

Eastward, an unknown way ; 
Above its windings, pleasantly, 

The woodland branches play. 

A silvery brook comes stealing 

From the shadow of its trees, 
Where slender herbs of the forest stoop 

Before the entering breeze. 

Along those pleasant windings 

I would my journey lay, 
Where the shade is cool and the dew of night 

Is not yet dried away. 

Path of the flowery woodland ! 

Oh, whither dost thou lead, 
Wandering by grassy orchard-grounds, 

Or by the open mead ? 

Goest thou by nestling cottage ? 

Goest thou by stately hall, 
Where the broad elm droops, a leafy dome, 

And woodbines flaunt on the wall ? 



30S 



LATER POEMS. 



By steeps where children gather 
Flowers of the yet fresh year ? 

By lonely walks where lovers stray 
Till the tender stars appear ? 




Or haply dost thou linger 
On barren plains and bare, 

Or clamber the bald mountain-side 
Into the thinner air ? 



OH MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE." 309 

Where they who journey upward 

Walk in a weary track, 
And oft upon the shady vale 

With longing eyes look back ? 

I hear a solemn murmur, 

And, listening to the sound, 
I know the voice of the mighty Sea, 

Beating his pebbly bound. 

Dost thou, O path of the woodland ! 

End where those waters roar, 
(Like human life, on a trackless beach, 
With a boundless Sea before ? 



"OH MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE." 

Oh mother of a mighty race, 
Yet lovely in thy youthful grace ! 
The elder dames, thy haughty peers, 
Admire and hate thy blooming years. 

W T ith words of shame 
And taunts of scorn they join thy name. 

For on thy cheeks the glow is spread 
That tints thy morning hills with red ; 
Thy step — the wild-deer's rustling feet, 
Within thy woods are not more fleet ; 

Thy hopeful eye 
Is bright as thine own sunny sky. 



310 LATER POEMS. 

Ay, let them rail — those haughty ones, 
While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. 
They do not know how loved thou art, 
How many a fond and fearless heart 

Would rise to throw 
Its life between thee and the foe. 

They know not, in their hate and pride, 
What virtues with thy children bide ; 
How true, how good, thy graceful maids 
Make bright, like flowers, the valley-shades 

What generous men 
Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen. 

What cordial welcomes greet the guest 
By thy lone rivers of the West ; 
How faith is kept, and truth revered, 
And man is loved, and God is feared, 

In woodland homes, 
And where the ocean-border foams. 

There's freedom at thy gates and rest 
For Earth's down-trodden and opprest, 
A shelter for the hunted head, 
For the starved laborer toil and bread. 

Power, at thy bounds, 
Stops and calls back his baffled hounds. 

Oh, fair young mother ! on thy brow 
Shall sit a nobler grace than now. 
Deep in the brightness of thy skies 
• The thronging years in glory rise, 
And, as they fleet, 
Drop strength and riches at thy feet. 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 311 

Thine eye, with every coming hour, 

Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower ; 

And when thy sisters, elder born, 

Would brand thy name with words of scorn, 

Before thine eye, 
Upon their lips the taunt shall die. 



THE LAND OF DREAMS. 

A mighty realm is the Land of Dreams, 
With steeps that hang in the twilight sky, 

And weltering oceans and trailing streams, 
That gleam where the dusky valleys lie. 

But over its shadowy border flow 

Sweet rays from the world of endless morn, 
And the nearer mountains catch the glow, 

And flowers in the nearer fields are born. 



The souls of the happy dead repair, 

From their bowers of light, to that bordering land, 
And walk in the fainter glory there, 

With the souls of the living hand in hand. 



One calm sweet smile, in that shadowy sphere, 
From eyes that open on earth no more — 

One warning word from a voice once dear — 
How they rise in the memory o'er and o'er ! 



312 LATER POEMS. 

Far off from those hills that shine with day 
And fields that bloom in the heavenly gales, 

The Land of Dreams goes stretching away 
To dimmer mountains and darker vales. 

There lie the chambers of guilty delight, 
There walk the spectres of guilty fear, 

And soft low voices, that float through the night, 
Are whispering sin in the helpless ear. 

Dear maid, in thy girlhood's opening flower, 
Scarce weaned from the love of childish play I 

The tears on whose cheeks are but the shower 
That freshens the blooms of early May ! 

Thine eyes are closed, and over thy brow 
Pass thoughtful shadows and joyous gleams, 

And I know, by thy moving lips, that now 
Thy spirit strays in the Land of Dreams. 

Light-hearted maiden, oh, heed thy feet ! 

Oh keep where that beam of Paradise falls : 
And only wander where thou mayst meet 

The blessed ones from its shining walls ! 

So shalt thou come from the Land of Dreams. 

With love and peace to this world of strife : 
And the light which over that border streams 

Shall lie on the path of thy daily life. 



THE BURIAL OF LOVE. 313 



THE BURIAL OF LOVE. 

Two dark-eyed maids, at shut of day, 
Sat where a river rolled away, 
With calm sad brows and raven hair, 
And one was pale and both were fair. 

Bring flowers, they sang, bring flowers unblown, 
Bring forest-blooms of name unknown ; 
Bring budding sprays from wood and wild, 
To strew the bier of Love, the child. 

Close softly, fondly, while ye weep, 
His eyes, that death may seem like sleep, 
And fold his hands in sign of rest, 
His waxen hands, across his breast. 

And make his grave where violets hide, 
Where star-flowers strew the rivulet's side, 
And bluebirds in the misty spring 
Of cloudless skies and summer sing. 

Place near him, as ye lay him low, 
His idle shafts, his loosened bow, 
The silken fillet that around 
His waggish eyes in sport he wound. 

But we shall mourn him long, and miss 

His ready smile, his ready kiss, 

The patter of his little feet, 

Sweet frowns and stammered phrases sweet ; 



314 LATER POEMS. 

And graver looks, serene and high, 
A light of heaven in that young eye, 
All these shall haunt us till the heart 
Shall ache and ache — and tears will start. 

The bow, the band shall fall to dust, 
The shining arrows waste with rust, 
And all of Love that earth can claim, 
Be but a memory and a name. 

Not thus his nobler part shall dwell 
A prisoner in this narrow cell ; 
But he whom now we hide from men, 
In the dark ground, shall live again : 

Shall break these clods, a form of light, 
With nobler mien and purer sight, 
And in the eternal glory stand, 
Highest and nearest God's right hand. 



THE MAY SUN SHEDS AN AMBER LIGHT. 

The May sun sheds an amber light 

On new-leaved woods and lawns between ; 
But she who, with a smile more bright, 
Welcomed and watched the springing green, 
Is in her grave, 
Low in her grave. 






THE VOICE OF AUTUMN. 315 

The fair white blossoms of the wood 

In groups beside the pathway stand ; 
But one, the gentle and the good, 

Who cropped them with a fairer hand, 
Is in her grave, 
Low in her grave. 

Upon the woodland's morning airs 

The small birds' mingled notes are flung ; 
But she, whose voice, more sweet than theirs, 
Once bade me listen while they sung, 
Is in her grave, 
Low in her grave. 

That music of the early year 

Brings tears of anguish to my eyes ; 
My heart aches when the flowers appear ; 
For then I think of her who lies 

Within her grave, 
Low in her grave) 



THE VOICE OF AUTUMN. 

There comes, from yonder height, 

A soft repining sound, 
Where forest-leaves are bright, 
And fall, like flakes of light, 
To the ground. 



:i6 



LATER POEMS. 




It is the autumn breeze, 

That, lightly floating on, 
Just skims the weedy leas, 
Just stirs the glowing trees, 
And is gone. 



He moans by sedgy brook, 

And visits, with a sigh, 
The last pale flowers that look, 
From out their sunny nook, 
At the sky. 



THE VOICE OF AUTUMN. 317 

O'er shouting children flies 
That light October wind, 
And, kissing cheeks and eyes, 
He leaves their merry cries 
Far behind. 

And wanders on to make 
That soft uneasy sound 
By distant wood and lake, 
Where distant fountains break 
From the ground. 

No bower where maidens dwell 

Can win a moment's stay ; 
Nor fair untrodden dell ; 
He sweeps the upland swell, 
And away ! 

Mourn'st thou thy homeless state ? 

O soft, repining wind ! 
That early seek'st and late 
The rest it is thy fate 

Not to find. 

Not on the mountain's breast, 

Not on the ocean's shore, 
In all the East and West : 
The wind that stops to rest 
Is no more. 

By valleys, woods, and springs. 

No wonder thou shouldst grieve 
For all the glorious things 
Thou touchest with thy wings 
And must leave. 



31 8 LATER POEMS. 



THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE. 

Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies, 
And yet the monument proclaims it not, 
Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought 

The emblems of a fame that never dies, — 
Ivy and amaranth, in a graceful sheaf, 
Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf. 
A simple name alone, 
To the great world unknown, 
Is graven here, and wild-flowers, rising round, 
Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground, 
Lean lovingly against the humble stone. 

Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart 

No man of iron mould and bloody hands, 
Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands 

The passions that consumed his restless heart ; 
But one of tender spirit and delicate frame, 
Gentlest, in mien and mind, 
Of gentle womankind, 
Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame : 
One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made 

Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May, 
Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade 

Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away. 

Nor deem that when the hand that moulders here 
Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear, 



THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE. 319 

And armies mustered at the sign, as when 
Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East — 
Gray captains leading- bands of veteran men 
And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast. 
Not thus were waged the mighty wars that gave 
The victory to her who fills this grave ; 

Alone her task was wrought, 

Alone the battle fought ; 
Through that long strife her constant hope was staid 
On God alone, nor looked for other aid. 

She met the hosts of Sorrow with a look 

That altered not beneath the frown they wore, 
And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took, 

Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more. 
Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath, 
And calmly broke in twain 
The fiery shafts of pain, 
And rent the nets of passion from her path. 

By that victorious hand despair was slain. 
With love she vanquished hate and overcame 
Evil with good, in her Great Master's name. 

Her glory is not of this shadowy state, 

Glory that with the fleeting season dies ; 
But when she entered at the sapphire gate 

What joy was radiant in celestial eyes ! 
How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung, 
And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung ! 
And He who, long before, 
Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, 
The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet, 
Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat ; 
He who returning, glorious, from the grave, 
Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave. 



320 LATER POEMS. 

See, as I linger here, the sun grows low ; 

Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. 
O gentle sleeper, from the grave I go 

Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear. 
Brief is the time, I know, 
The warfare scarce begun ; 
Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won. 
Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee, 

The victors' names are yet too few to fill 
Heaven's mighty roll ; the glorious armory, 

That ministered to thee, is open still. 



THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE. 



Come, let us plant the apple-tree. 
Cleave the tough greensward with the spade ; 
Wide let its hollow bed be made ; 
There gently lay the roots, and there 
Sift the dark mould with kindly care, 

And press it o'er them tenderly, 
As, round the sleeping infant's feet, 
We softly fold the cradle-sheet ; 

So plant we the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree ? 
Buds, which the breath of summer days 
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays ; 
Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, 
Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest ; 



THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE. 



321 




We plant, upon the sunny lea, 
A shadow for the noontide hour, 
A shelter from the summer shower, 

When we plant the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree ? 
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs 
To load the May-wind's restless wings, 
When, from the orchard-row, he pours 
Its fragrance through our open doors ; 

A world of blossoms for the bee, 
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, 
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, 

We plant with the apple-tree. 

What plant we in this apple-tree ? 
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, 
And redden in the August noon, 
And drop, when gentle airs come by, 

21 



322 LATER POEMS. 

That fan the blue September sky, 

While children come, with cries of glee, 
And seek them where the fragrant grass 
Betrays their bed to those who pass, 
At the foot of the apple-tree. 

And when, above this apple-tree, 
The winter stars are quivering bright, 
And winds go howling through the night, 
Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, 
Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth, 

And guests in prouder homes shall see, 
Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine 
And golden orange of the line, 

The fruit of the apple-tree. 

The fruitage of this apple-tree 
Winds and our flag of stripe and star 
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, 
Where men shall wonder at the view, 
And ask in what fair groves they grew ; 

And sojourners beyond the sea 
Shall think of childhood's careless day, 
And long, long hours of summer play, 

In the shade of the apple-tree. 

Each year shall give this apple-tree 
A broader flush of roseate bloom, 
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, 
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, 
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower ; 

The years shall come and pass, but we 
Shall hear no longer, where we lie, 
The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, 

In the boughs of the apple-tree. 



THE SNOW-SHOWER. 323 

And time shall waste this apple-tree. 
Oh, when its aged branches throw 
Thin shadows on the ground below, 
Shall fraud and force and iron will 
Oppress the weak and helpless still ? 

What shall the tasks of mercy be, 
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears 
Of those who live when length of years 

Is wasting this little apple-tree ? 

" Who planted this old apple-tree ? " 
The children of that distant day 
Thus to some aged man shall say ; 
And, gazing on its mossy stem, 
The gray-haired man shall answer them : 

" A poet of the land was he, 
Born in the rude but good old times ; 
'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes, 

On planting the apple-tree." 



THE SNOW-SHOWER. 

Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, 
On the lake below thy gentle eyes ; 

The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, 
And dark and silent the water lies ; 

And out of that frozen mist the snow 

In wavering flakes begins to flow ; 

Flake after flake 

They sink in the dark and silent lake. 



324 



LATER POEMS. 




iK'^S^ 



" Flake after flake 
They sink in the dark and silent lake. 



THE SNOW-SHOWER. 325 

See how in a living swarm they come 

From the chambers beyond that misty veil ; 
Some hover awhile in air, and some 

Rush prone from the sky like summer hail. 
All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, 
Meet, and are still in the depths below ; 

Flake after flake 
Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. 



Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, 
Come floating downward in airy play, 

Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd 
That whiten by night the milky-way ; 

There broader and burlier masses fall ; 

The sullen water buries them all — 

Flake after flake — 

All drowned in the dark and silent lake. 



And some, as on tender wings they glide 
From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray 

Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, 
Come clinging along their unsteady way ; 

As friend with friend, or husband with wife, 

Makes hand in hand the passage of life ; 
Each mated flake 

Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake. 



Lo ! while we are gazing, in swifter haste 
Stream down the snows, till the air is white, 

As, myriads by myriads madly chased, 

They fling themselves from their shadowy height. 



326 LATER POEMS. 

The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, 

What speed they make, with their grave so nigh 

Flake after flake, 
To lie in the dark and silent lake ! 

I see in thy gentle eyes a tear ; 

They turn to me in sorrowful thought ; 
Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, 

Who were for a time, and now are not ; 
Like these fair children of cloud and frost, 
That glisten a moment and then are lost, 

Flake after flake — 
All lost in the dark and silent lake. 

Yet look again, for the clouds divide ; 

A gleam of blue on the water lies ; 
And far away, on the mountain-side, 

A sunbeam falls from the opening skies, 
But the hurrying host that flew between 
The cloud and the water, no more is seen ; 

Flake after flake, 
At rest in the dark and silent lake. 



A RAIN-DREAM. 

These strifes, these tumults of the noisy world, 
Where Fraud, the coward, tracks his prey by stealth, 
And Strength, the ruffian, glories in his guilt, 
Oppress the heart with sadness. Oh, my friend, 



A RAIN-DREAM. 



327 




In what serener mood we look upon 
The gloomiest aspects of the elements 
Among the woods and fields ! Let us awhile, 
As the slow wind is rolling up the storm, 
In fancy leave this maze of dusty streets, 
Forever shaken by the importunate jar 
Of commerce, and upon the darkening air 
Look from the shelter of our rural home. 



328 LATER POEMS. 






Who is not awed that listens to the Rain, 
Sending his voice before him ? Mighty Rain ! 
The upland steeps are shrouded by thy mists ; 
Thy shadow fills the hollow vale ; the pools 
No longer glimmer, and the silvery streams 
Darken to veins of lead at thy approach. 
O mighty Rain ! already thou art here ; 
And every roof is beaten by thy streams, 
And, as thou passest, every glassy spring 
Grows rough, and every leaf in all the woods 
Is struck, and quivers. All the hill-tops slake 
Their thirst from thee ; a thousand languishing fields, 
A thousand fainting gardens, are refreshed ; 
A thousand idle rivulets start to speed, 
And with the graver murmur of the storm 
Blend their light voices as they hurry on. 

Thou fill'st the circle of the atmosphere 
Alone ; there is no living thing abroad, 
No bird to wing the air nor beast to walk 
The field ; the squirrel in the forest seeks 
His hollow tree ; the marmot of the field 
Has scampered to his den ; the butterfly 
Hides under her broad leaf; the insect crowds, 
That made the sunshine populous, lie close 
In their mysterious shelters, whence the sun 
Will summon them again. The mighty Rain 
Holds the vast empire of the sky alone. 

I shut my eyes, and see, as in a dream, 
The friendly clouds drop down spring violets 
And summer columbines, and all the flowers 
That tuft the woodland floor, or overarch 
The streamlet : — spiky grass for genial June, 
Brown harvests for the waiting husbandman, 
And for the woods a deluge of fresh leaves. 



A FAIN-DREAM. 329 

I see these myriad drops that slake the dust, 
Gathered in glorious streams, or rolling blue 
In billows on the lake or on the deep, 
And bearing navies. I behold them change 
To threads of crystal as they sink in earth 
And leave its stains behind,' to rise again 
In pleasant nooks of verdure, where the child, 
Thirsty with play, in both his little hands 
Shall take the cool, clear water, raising it 
To wet his pretty lips. To-morrow noon 
How proudly will the water-lily ride 
The brimming pool, o'erlooking, like a queen, 
Her circle of broad leaves ! In lonely wastes, 
When next the sunshine makes them beautiful, 
Gay troops of butterflies shall light to drink 
At the replenished hollows of the rock. 

Now slowly falls the dull blank night, and still, 
All through the starless hours, the mighty Rain 
Smites with perpetual sound the forest-leaves, 
And beats the matted grass, and still the earth 
Drinks the unstinted bounty of the clouds — 
Drinks for her cottage wells, her woodland brooks — 
Drinks for the springing trout, the toiling bee, 
And brooding bird — drinks for her tender flowers, 
Tall oaks, and all the herbage of her hills. 

A melancholy sound is in the air, 
A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail 
Around my dwelling. 'Tis the Wind of night ; 
A lonely wanderer between earth and cloud, 
In the black shadow and the chilly mist, 
Along the streaming mountain-side, and through 
The dripping woods, and o'er the plashy fields, 
Roaming and sorrowing still, like one who makes 
The journey of life alone, and nowhere meets 



33© LATER POEMS. 

A welcome or a friend, and still goes on 

In darkness. Yet awhile, a little while, 

And he shall toss the glittering leaves in play, 

And dally with the flowers, and gayly lift 

The slender herbs, pressed low by weight of rain, 

And drive, in joyous triumph, through the sky, 

White clouds, the laggard remnants of the storm. 



ROBERT OF LINCOLN. 

Merrily swinging on brier and weed, 

Near to the nest of his little dame, 
Over the mountain-side or mead, 

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Snug and safe is that nest of ours, 
Hidden among the summer flowers. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, 

Wearing a bright black wedding-coat ; 
White are his shoulders and white his crest, 
Hear him call in his merry note : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Look, what a nice new coat is mine, 
Sure there was never a bird so fine. 
Chee, chee, chee. 



ROBERT OF LINCOLN. 

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, 

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, 
Passing at home a patient life, 

Broods in the grass while her husband sings : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink. 
Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear 
Thieves and robbers while I am here. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Modest and shy as a nun is she ; 

One weak chirp is her only note. 
Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, 
Pouring boasts from his little throat : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Never was I afraid of man ; 
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can ! 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, 

Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! 
There as the mother sits all day, 

Robert is singing with all his might : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Nice good wife, that never goes out, 
Keeping house while I frolic about. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Soon as the little ones chip the shell, 
Six wide mouths are open for food ; 

Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, 
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood. 



33i 



332 LATER POEMS. 

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
This new life is likely to be 
Hard for a gay young fellow like me. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Robert of Lincoln at length is made 

Sober with work, and silent with care ; 
Off is his holiday garment laid, 
Half forgotten that merry air : 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
Nobody knows but my mate and I 
Where our nest and our nestlings lie. 
Chee, chee, chee. 

Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; 

Fun and frolic no more he knows ; 
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; 
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes ; 
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, 
Spink, spank, spink ; 
When you can pipe that merry old strain, 
Robert of Lincoln, come back again. 
Chee, chee, chee. 



THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH. 333 



THE TWENTY-SEVENTH OF MARCH. 

Oh, gentle one, thy birthday sun should rise 
Amid a chorus of the merriest birds 
That ever sang the stars out of the sky 
In a June morning. Rivulets should send 
A voice of gladness from their winding paths, 
Deep in o'erarching grass, where playful winds, 
Stirring the loaded stems, should shower the dew 
Upon the grassy water. Newly-blown 
Roses, by thousands, to the garden-walks 
Should tempt the loitering moth and diligent bee. 
The longest, brightest day in all the year 
Should be the day on which thy cheerful eyes 
First opened on the earth, to make thy haunts 
Fairer and gladder for thy kindly looks. 

Thus might a poet say ; but I must bring 
A birthday offering of an humbler strain, 
And yet it may not please thee less. I hold 
That 'twas the fitting season for thy birth 
When March, just ready to depart, begins 
To soften into April. Then we have 
The delicatest and most welcome flowers, 
And yet they take least heed of bitter wind 
And lowering sky. The periwinkle then, 
In an hour's sunshine, lifts her azure blooms 
Beside the cottage-door ; within the woods 
Tufts of ground-laurel, creeping underneath 
The leaves of the last summer, send their sweets 
Up to the chilly air, and, by the oak, 
The squirrel-cups, a graceful company, 
Hide in their bells, a soft aerial blue — 



334 LATER POEMS. 

Sweet flowers, that nestle in the humblest nooks, 

And yet within whose smallest bud is wrapped 

A world of promise ! Still the north wind breathes 

His frost, and still the sky sheds snow and sleet ; 

Yet ever, when the sun looks forth again, 

The flowers smile up to them from their low seats. 

Well hast thou borne the bleak March day of life. 
Its storms and its keen winds to thee have been 
Most kindly tempered, and through all its gloom 
There has been warmth and sunshine in thy heart ; 
The griefs of life to thee have been like snows, 
That light upon the fields in early spring, 
Making them greener. In its milder hours, 
The smile of this pale season, thou hast seen 
The glorious bloom of June, and in the note 
Of early bird, that comes a messenger 
From climes of endless verdure, thou hast heard 
The choir that fills the summer woods with song. 

Now be the hours that yet remain to thee 
Stormy or sunny, sympathy and love, 
That inextinguishably dwell within 
Thy heart, shall give a beauty and a light 
To the most desolate moments, like the glow 
Of a bright fireside in the wildest day ; 
And kindly words and offices of good 
Shall wait upon thy steps, as thou goest on, 
Where God shall lead thee, till thou reach the gates 
Of a more genial season, and thy path 
Be lost to human eye among the bowers 
And living fountains of a brighter land. ) 

March, 1855. 



AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. 



335 




AN INVITATION TO THE COUNTRY. 



Already, close by our summer dwelling, 
The Easter sparrow repeats her song ; 

A merry warbler, she chides the blossoms — 
The idle blossoms that sleep so long. 



336 LATER POEMS. 

The bluebird chants, from the elm's long branches, 
A hymn to welcome the budding year. 

The south wind wanders from field to forest, 
And softly whispers, " The Spring is here." 

Come, daughter mine, from the gloomy city, 
Before those lays from the elm have ceased ; 

The violet breathes, by our door, as sweetly 
As in the air of her native East. 

Though many a flower in the wood is waking, 
The daffodil is our doorside queen ; 

She pushes upward the sward already, 
To spot with sunshine the early green. 

No lays so joyous as these are warbled 
From wiry prison in maiden's bower ; 

No pampered bloom of the green-house chamber 
Has half the charm of the lawn's first flower. 

Yet these sweet sounds of the early season, 
And these fair sights of its sunny days, 

Are only sweet when we fondly listen, 
And only fair when we fondly gaze. 

There is no glory in star or blossom 
Till looked upon by a loving eye ; 

There is no fragrance in April breezes 
Till breathed with joy as they wander by. 

Come, Julia dear, for the sprouting willows, 
The opening flowers, and the gleaming brooks, 

And hollows, green in the sun, are waiting 
Their dower of beauty from thy glad looks. 



A SONG FOR NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 337 



A SONG FOR NEW-YEAR'S EVE. 



Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay — 

Stay till the good old year, 
So long- companion of our way, 

Shakes hands, and leaves us here. 
Oh stay, oh stay, 
One little hour, and then away. 

The year, whose hopes were high and strong, 

Has now no hopes to wake ; 
Yet one hour more of jest and song 

For his familiar sake. 

Oh stay, oh stay. 
One mirthful hour, and then away. 

The kindly year, his liberal hands 

Have lavished all his store. 
And shall we turn from where he stands, 

Because he gives no more ? 
Oh stay, oh stay, 
One grateful hour, and then away. 

Days brightly came and calmly went 

While yet he was our guest ; 
How cheerfully the w T eek was spent ! 
How sweet the seventh day's rest ! 
Oh stay, oh stay, 
One golden hour, and then away. 
22 



33*$ LATER POEMS. 

Dear friends were with us, some who sleep 

Beneath the coffin-lid : 
What pleasant memories we keep 

Of all they said and did ! 
Oh stay, oh stay, 
One tender hour, and then away. 

Even while we sing, he smiles his last, 
And leaves our sphere behind. 

The good old year is with the past ; 
Oh be the new as kind ! 
Oh stay, oh stay, 

One parting strain, and then away. 



THE WIND AND STREAM. 



A BROOK came stealing from the ground ; 

You scarcely saw its silvery gleam 
Among the herbs that hung around 

The borders of that winding stream, 
The pretty stream, the placid stream, 
The softly-gliding, bashful stream. 

A breeze came wandering from the sky, 
Light as the whispers of a dream 

He put the o'erhanging grasses by, 
And softly stooped to kiss the stream,' 

The pretty stream, the flattered stream, 

The shy, yet unreluctant stream. 



THE LOST BIRD. 339 

The water, as the wind passed o'er, 

Shot upward many a glancing beam, 
Dimpled and quivered more and more, 

And tripped along, a livelier stream, 
The flattered stream, the simpering stream, 
The fond, delighted, silly stream. 

Away the airy wanderer flew 

To where the fields with blossoms teem, 
To sparkling springs and rivers blue, 

And left alone that little stream, 
The flattered stream, the cheated stream, 
The sad, forsaken, lonely stream. 

That careless wind came never back ; 

He wanders yet the fields, I deem, 
But, on its melancholy track, 

Complaining went that little stream, 
The cheated stream, the hopeless stream, 
The ever-murmuring, mourning stream. 



THE LOST BIRD. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF CAROLINA CORONADO DE PERRY. 

My bird has flown away, 
Far out of sight has flown, I know not where. 

Look in your lawn, I pray, 

Ye maidens, kind and fair, 
And see if my beloved bird be there. 



34o LATER POEMS. 

His eyes are full of light ; 

The eagle of the rock has such an eye ; 
And plumes, exceeding bright, 
Round his smooth temples lie, 

And sweet his voice and tender as a sigh. 

Look where the grass is gay 
With summer blossoms, haply there he cowers 

And search, from spray to spray, 

The leafy laurel-bowers, 
For well he loves the laurels and the flowers. 

Find him, but do not dwell, 
With eyes too fond, on the fair form you see, 

Nor love his song too well ; 

Send him, at once, to me, 
Or leave him to the air and liberty. 

For only from my hand 
He takes the seed into his golden beak, 

And all unwiped shall stand 

The tears that wet my cheek, 
Till I have found the wanderer I seek. 
f 

My sight is darkened o'er, 
Whene'er I miss his eyes, which are my day, 

And when I hear no more 

The music of his lay, 
My heart in utter sadness faints away, i 



THE NIGHT-JOURNEY OF A RIVER. 341 



THE NIGHT-JOURNEY OF A RIVER. 

Oh River, gentle River ! gliding- on 
In silence underneath this starless sky ! 
Thine is a ministry that never rests 
Even while the living slumber. For a time 
The meddler, man, hath left the elements 
In peace ; the ploughman breaks the clods no more 
The miner labors not, with steel and fire, 
To rend the rock, and he that hews the stone, 
And he that fells the forest, he that guides 
The loaded wain, and the poor animal 
That drags it, have forgotten, for a time, 
Their toils, and share the quiet of the earth. 
Thou pausest not in thine allotted task, 

darkling River ! Through the night I hear 
Thy wavelets rippling on the pebbly beach ; 

1 hear thy current stir the rustling sedge, 
That skirts thy bed ; thou intermittest not 
Thine everlasting journey, drawing on 

A silvery train from many a woodland spring 
And mountain-brook. The dweller by thy side, 
Who moored his little boat upon thy beach, 
Though all the waters that upbore it then 
Have slid away o'er night, shall find, at morn, 
Thy channel filled with waters freshly drawn 
From distant cliffs, and hollows where the rill 
Comes up amid the water-flags. All night 
Thou givest moisture to the thirsty roots 
Of the lithe willow and o'erhanging plane, 
And cherishest the herbage of thy bank, 



342 LATER POEMS. 

Spotted with little flowers, and sendest up 
Perpetually the vapors from thy face, 
To steep the hills with dew, or darken heaven 
With drifting clouds, that trail the shadowy shower. 

O River ! darkling River ! what a voice 
Is that thou utterest while all else is still— 
The ancient voice that, centuries ago, 
Sounded between thy hills, while Rome was yet 
A weedy solitude by Tiber's stream ! 
How many, at this hour, along thy course, 
Slumber to thine eternal murmurings, 
That mingle with the utterance of their dreams ! 
At dead of night the child awakes and hears 
Thy soft, familiar dashings, and is soothed, 
And sleeps again. An airy multitude 
Of little echoes, all unheard by day, 
Faintly repeat, till morning, after thee, 
The story of thine endless goings forth. 

Yet there are those who lie beside thy bed 
For whom thou once didst rear the bowers that screen 
Thy margin, and didst water the green fields ; 
And now there is no night so still that they 
Can hear thy lapse ; their slumbers, were thy voice 
Louder than Ocean's, it could never break. 
For them the early violet no more 
Opens upon thy bank, nor, for their eyes, 
Glitter the crimson pictures of the clouds, 
Upon thy bosom, when the sun goes down. 
Their memories are abroad, the memories 
Of those who last were gathered to the earth, 
Lingering within the homes in which they sat, 
Hovering above the paths in which they walked, 
Haunting them like a presence. Even now 
They visit many a dreamer in the forms 



THE NIGHT-JOURNEY OF A RIVER. 343 

They walked in, ere at last they wore the shroud. 
And eyes there are which will not close to dream, 
For weeping and for thinking of the grave, 
The new-made grave, and the pale one within. 
These memories and these sorrows all shall fade, 
And pass away, and fresher memories 
And newer sorrows come and dwell awhile 
Beside thy borders, and, in turn, depart. 

On glide thy waters, till at last they flow 
Beneath the windows of the populous town, 
And all night long give back the gleam of lamps, 
And glimmer with the trains of light that stream 
From halls where dancers whirl. A dimmer ray 
Touches thy surface from the silent room 
In which they tend the sick, or gather round 
The dying ; and a slender, steady beam 
Comes from the little chamber, in the roof 
Where, with a feverous crimson on her cheek, 
The solitary damsel, dying, too, 
Plies the quick needle till the stars grow pale. 
There, close beside the haunts of revel, stand 
The blank, unlighted windows, where the poor, 
In hunger and in darkness, wake till morn. 
There, drowsily, on the half-conscious ear 
Of the dull watchman, pacing on the wharf, 
Falls the soft ripple of the waves that strike 
On the moored bark ; but guiltier listeners 
Are nigh, the prowlers of the night, who steal 
From shadowy nook to shadowy nook, and start 
If other sounds than thine are in the air. 

Oh, glide away from those abodes, that bring 
Pollution to thy channel and make foul 
Thy once clear current ; summon thy quick waves 
And dimpling eddies ; linger not, but haste, 



344 



LATER POEMS. 




" . . . . Haste thee to the deep, 
There to be tossed by shifting ■winds.' 1 '' 



THE LIFE THAT IS. 

With all thy waters, haste thee to the deep, 
There to be tossed by shifting winds and rocked 
By that mysterious force which lives within 
The sea's immensity, and wields the weight 
Of its abysses, swaying to and fro 
The billowy mass, until the stain, at length, 
Shall wholly pass away, and thou regain 
The crystal brightness of thy mountain-springs. 



345 



THE LIFE THAT IS. 

Thou, who so long hast pressed the couch of pain, 
Oh welcome, welcome back to life's free breath — 

To life's free breath and day's sweet light again, 
From the chill shadows of the gate of death ! 

For thou hadst reached the twilight bound between 
The world of spirits and this grosser sphere ; 

Dimly by thee the things of earth were seen, 
And faintly fell earth's voices on thine ear. 

And now, how gladly we behold, at last, 
The wonted smile returning to thy brow ! 

The very wind's low whisper, breathing past, 
In the light leaves, is music to thee now. 

Thou wert not wear)- of thy lot ; the earth 
Was ever good and pleasant in thy sight ; 

Still clung thy loves about the household hearth, 
And sweet was every day's returning light. 



346 LATER POEMS. 

Then welcome back to all thou wouldst not leave, 
To this grand march of seasons, days, and hours ; 

The glory of the morn, the glow of eve, 

The beauty of the streams, and stars, and flowers ; 

To eyes on which thine own delight to rest ; 

To voices which it is thy joy to hear ; 
To the kind toils that ever pleased thee best, 

The willing tasks of love, that made life dear. 

Welcome to grasp of friendly hands ; to prayers 
Offered where crowds in reverent worship come, 

Or softly breathed amid the tender cares 
And loving inmates of thy quiet home. 

Thou bring'st no tidings of the better land, 
Even from its verge ; the mysteries opened there 

Are what the faithful heart may understand 
In its still depths, yet words may not declare. 

And well I deem that, from the brighter side 
Of life's dim border, some o'erflowing rays 

Streamed from the inner glory, shall abide 
Upon thy spirit through the coming days. 

Twice wert thou given me ; once in thy fair prime, 
Fresh from the fields of youth, when first we met, 

And all the blossoms of that hopeful time 

Clustered and glowed where'er thy steps were set. 

And now, in thy ripe autumn, once again 

Given back to fervent prayers and yearnings strong, 

From the drear realm of sickness and of pain 

When we had watched, and feared, and trembled long. 



SOJVG. 347 



Now may we keep thee from the balmy air 
And radiant walks of heaven a little space, 

Where He, who went before thee to prepare 
For His meek followers, shall assign thy place. 

Castellamare, May, 1858. 



SONG. 



"THESE PRAIRIES GLOW WITH FLOWERS. 

These prairies glow with flowers. 

These groves are tall and fair, 
The sweet lay of the mocking-bird 

Rings in the morning air ; 
And yet I pine to see 

My native hill once more, 
And hear the sparrow's friendly chirp 

Beside its cottage-door. 

And he, for whom I left 

My native hill and brook, 
Alas, I sometimes think I trace 

A coldness in his look ! 
If I have lost his love, 

I know my heart will break ; 
And haply, they I left for him 

Will sorrow for my sake. 



348 LATER POEMS. 

A SICK-BED. 

A 

Long hast thou watched my bed, 
And smoothed the pillow oft 

For this poor, aching head, 
With touches kind and soft. J 

Oh ! smooth it yet again, 
As softly as before ; 

Once — only once — and then 
I need thy hand no more. 

Yet here I may not stay, 
Where I so long have lain, 

Through many a restless day 
And many a night of pain. 

But bear me gently forth 
Beneath the open sky, 

Where, on the pleasant earth, 
Till night the sunbeams lie. 

There, through the coming days, 
I shall not look to thee 

My weary side to raise, 
And shift it tenderly. 

There sweetly shall I sleep ; 

Nor wilt thou need to bring 
And put to my hot lip 

Cool water from the spring ; 



A SICK-BED. 349 

Nor wet the kerchief laid 

Upon my burning brow ; 
Nor from my eyeballs shade 

The light that wounds them now ; 

Nor watch that none shall tread, 

With noisy footstep, nigh ; 
Nor listen by my bed, 

To hear my faintest sigh, 

And feign a look of cheer, 

And words of comfort speak, 
Yet turn to hide the tear 

That gathers on thy cheek. 

Beside me, where I rest, 

Thy loving hands will set 
The flowers that please me best — 

Moss-rose and violet. 

Then to the sleep I crave 

Resign me, till I see 
The face of Him who gave 

His life for thee and me. 

Yet, with the setting sun, 

Come, now and then, at eve, 
And think of me as one 

For whom thou shouldst not grieve ; 

Who, when the kind release 

From sin and suffering came, 
Passed to the appointed peace 

In murmuring thy name. 



350 LATER POEMS. 

Leave at my side a space, 

Where thou shalt come, at last, 

To find a resting-place, 
When many years are past. 



THE SONG OF THE SOWER. 



The maples redden in the sun ; 

In autumn gold the beeches stand ; 
Rest, faithful plough, thy work is done 

Upon the teeming land. 
Bordered with trees whose gay leaves fly 
On every breath that sweeps the sky, 
The fresh dark acres furrowed lie, 

And ask the sower's hand. 
Loose the tired steer and let him go 
To pasture where the gentians blow, 
And we, who till the grateful ground, 
Fling we the golden shower around. 



Fling wide the generous grain ; we fling 
O'er the dark mould the green of spring. 
For thick the emerald blades shall grow, 
When first the March winds melt the snow, 
And to the sleeping flowers, below, 

The early bluebirds sing. 
Fling wide the grain ; we give the fields 
The ears that nod in summer's gale, 



THE SONG OF THE SOWER. 



M 




" The song of him -who binds the grain, 
The shoiit of those that load the wain.' 



352 LATER POEMS. 

The shining stems that summer gilds, 
The harvest that o'erfiows the vale, 
And swells, an amber sea, between 
The full-leaved woods, its shores of green. 
Hark ! from the murmuring clods I hear 
Glad voices of the coming year ; 
The song of him who binds the grain, 
The shout of those that load the wain, 
And from the distant grange there comes 

The clatter of the thresher's flail, 
And steadily the millstone hums 
Down in the willowy vale. 



III. 






Fling wide the golden shower ; we trust 
The strength of armies to the dust. 
This peaceful lea may haply yield 
Its harvest for the tented field. 
Ha ! feel ye not your fingers thrill, 

As o'er them, in the yellow grains, 
Glide the warm drops of blood that fill, 

For mortal strife, the warrior's veins ; 
Such as, on Solferino's day, 
Slaked the brown sand and flowed away- 
Flowed till the herds, on Mincio's brink, 
Snuffed the red stream and feared to drink 
Blood that in deeper pools shall lie, 

On the sad earth, as time grows gray, 
When men by deadlier arts shall die, 
And deeper darkness blot the sky 

Above the thundering fray ; 
And realms, that hear the battle-cry, 
Shall sicken with dismay; 



THE SONG OF THE SOWER. 

And chieftains to the war shall lead 
Whole nations, with the tempest's speed, 

To perish in a day ; — 
Till man, by love and mercy taught, 
Shall rue the wreck his fury wrought, 

And lay the sword away ! 
Oh strew, with pausing, shuddering hand, 
The seed upon the helpless land, 
As if, at every step, ye cast 
The pelting hail and riving blast. 



IV. 



Nay, strew, with free and joyous sweep, 

The seed upon the expecting soil ; 
For hence the plenteous year shall heap 

The garners of the men who toil. 
Strew the bright seed for those who tear 
The matted sward with spade and share, 
And those whose sounding axes gleam 
Beside the lonely forest-stream, 

Till its broad banks lie bare ; 
And him who breaks the quarry-ledge, 

With hammer-blows, plied quick and strong, 
And him who, with the steady sledge, 

Smites the shrill anvil all day long. 
Sprinkle the furrow's even trace 

For those whose toiling hands uprear 
The roof-trees of our swarming race, 

By grove and plain, by stream and mere ; 
Who forth, from crowded city, lead 

The lengthening street, and overlay 
Green orchard-plot and grassy mead 

With pavement of the murmuring way. 
23 



353 



354 



LATER POEMS. 




<H> 



Who forth, from crowded city, lead 
The lengthening street" 



THE SONG OF THE SOWER. 355 

Cast, with full hands the harvest cast, 
For the brave men that climb the mast, 
When to the billow and the blast 

It swings and stoops, with fearful strain, 
And bind the fluttering mainsail fast, 

Till the tossed bark shall sit, again, 

Safe as a sea-bird on the main. 

v. 

Fling wide the grain for those who throw 

The clanking shuttle to and fro, 

In the long row of humming rooms, 

And into ponderous masses wind 
The web that, from a thousand looms, 

Comes forth to clothe mankind. 
Strew, with free sweep, the grain for them, 

By whom the busy thread 
Along the garment's even hem 

And winding seam is led ; 
A pallid sisterhood, that keep 

The lonely lamp alight, 
In strife with weariness and sleep, 

Beyond the middle night. 
Large part be theirs in what the year 
Shall ripen for the reaper here. 

VI. 

Still, strew, with joyous hand, the wheat 
On the soft mould beneath our feet, 

For even now I seem 
To hear a sound that lightly rings 
From murmuring harp and viol's strings, 

As in a summer dream. 



356 



LATER POEMS. 




THE SONG OF THE SOWER. 357 



VII. 



Scatter the wheat for shipwrecked men, 
Who, hunger-worn, rejoice again 
In the sweet safety of the shore, 
And wanderers, lost in woodlands drear, 
Whose pulses bound with joy to hear 
The herd's light bell once more. 
Freely the golden spray be shed 
For him whose heart, when night comes down 
On the close alleys of the town, 

Is faint for lack of bread. 
In chill roof-chambers, bleak and bare, 
Or the damp cellar's stifling air, 
She who now sees, in mute despair, 

Her children pine for food, 
Shall feel the dews of gladness start 
To lids long tearless, and shall part 
The sweet loaf with a grateful heart, 

Among her thin pale brood. 
Dear, kindly Earth, whose breast we till ! 
Oh, for thy famished children, fill, 

Where'er the sower walks, 
Fill the rich ears that shade the mould 
With grain for grain, a hundredfold, 

To bend the sturdy stalks. 



VIII. 

Strew silently the fruitful seed, 
As softly o'er the tilth ye tread, 

For hands that delicately knead 
The consecrated bread — 



35* 



LATER POEMS. 




A s when the mother, from her breast, 
Lays the hushed babe apart to rest.' 1 '' 



THE SONG OF THE SOWER. 359 

The mystic loaf that crowns the board, 
When, round the table of their Lord, 

Within a thousand temples set, 
In memory of the bitter death 
Of Him who taught at Nazareth, 

His followers are met, 
And thoughtful eyes with tears are wet, 

As of the Holy One they think, 
The glory of whose rising yet 

Makes bright the grave's mysterious brink. 



IX. 



Brethren, the sower's task is done. 
The seed is in its winter bed. 
Now let the dark-brown mould be spread, 

To hide it from the sun, 
And leave it to the kindly care 
Of the still earth and brooding air, 
As when the mother, from her breast, 
Lays the hushed babe apart to rest, 
And shades its eyes, and waits to see 
How sweet its waking smile will be. 
The tempest now may smite, the sleet 
All night on the drowned furrow beat. 
And winds that, from the cloudy hold, 
Of winter breathe the bitter cold, 
Stiffen to stone the mellow mould, 

Yet safe shall lie the wheat ; 
Till, out of heaven's unmeasured blue, 

Shall walk again the genial year, 
To wake with warmth and nurse with dew 

The germs we lay to slumber here. 



3 6 ° 



LATER POEMS. 




The ancient East shall welcome thee 
To mighty marts beyond the sea." 



THE NEW AND THE OLD. 361 

x. 

O blessed harvest yet to be ! 

Abide thou with the Love that keeps, 
In its warm bosom, tenderly, 

The life which wakes and that which sleeps. 
The Love that leads the willing spheres 
Along the unending track of years, 
And watches o'er the sparrow's nest, 
Shall brood above thy winter rest, 
And raise thee from the dust, to hold 

Light whisperings with the winds of May, 
And fill thy spikes with living gold, 

From summer's yellow ray ; 
Then, as thy garners give thee forth, 

On what glad errands shalt thou go, 
Wherever, o'er the waiting earth, 

Roads wind and rivers flow ! 
The ancient East shall welcome thee 
To mighty marts beyond the sea, 
And they who dwell where palm-groves sound 
To summer winds the whole year round, 
Shall watch, in gladness, from the shore, 
The sails that bring thy glistening store. 



THE NEW AND THE OLD. 

New are the leaves on the oaken spray, 
New the blades of the silky grass ; 

Flowers, that were buds but yesterday, 
Peep from the ground where'er I pass. 



LATER POEMS. 

These gay idlers, the butterflies, 

Broke, to-day, from their winter shroud ; 

These light airs, that winnow the skies, 
Blow, just born, from the soft, white cloud. 

Gushing fresh in the little streams, 
What a prattle the waters make ! 

Even the sun, with its tender beams, 

Seems as young as the flowers they wake. 

Children are wading, with cheerful cries, 
In the shoals of the sparkling brook, 

Laughing maidens, with soft, young eyes, 
Walk or sit in the shady nook. 

What am I doing, thus alone, 

In the glory of Nature here, 
Silver-haired, like a snow-flake thrown 

On the greens of the springing year ? 

Only for brows unploughed by care, 
Eyes that glisten with hope and mirth, 

Cheeks unwrinkled, and unblanched hair, 
Shines this holiday of the earth. 

Under the grass, with the clammy clay, 
Lie in darkness the last year's flowers, 

Born of a light that has passed away, 
Dews long dried and forgotten showers. 

" Under the grass is the fitting home," 
So they whisper, "for such as thou, 

When the winter of life is come, 

Chilling the blood, and frosting the brow." 



THE CLOUD ON THE WAY. 363 



THE CLOUD ON THE WAY. 

See before us, in our journey, broods a mist upon the ground ; 

Thither leads the path we walk in, blending with that gloomy bound. 

Never eye hath pierced its shadows to the mystery they screen ; 

Those who once have passed within it never more on earth are seen. 

Now it seems to stoop beside us, now at seeming distance lowers, 

Leaving banks that tempt us onward bright with summer-green and flowers. 

Yet it blots the way forever ; there our journey ends at last ; 

Into that dark cloud we enter, and are gathered to the past. 

Thou who, in this flinty pathway, leading through a stranger-land, 

Passest down the rocky valley, walking with me hand in hand, 

Which of us shall be the soonest folded to that dim Unknown ? 

Which shall leave the other walking in this flinty path alone ? 

Even now I see thee shudder, and thy cheek is white with fear, 

And thou clingest to my side as comes that darkness sweeping near. 

" Here," thou sayest, "the path is rugged, sown with thorns that wound the 

feet ; 
But the sheltered glens are lovely, and the rivulet's song is sweet ; 
Roses breathe from tangled thickets ; lilies bend from ledges brown ; 
Pleasantly between the pelting showers the sunshine gushes down ; 
Dear are those who walk beside us, they whose looks and voices make 
All this rugged region cheerful, till I love it for their sake. 
Far be yet the hour that takes me where that chilly shadow lies, 
From the things I know and love, and from the sight of loving eyes ! " 
So thou murmurest, fearful one ; but see, we tread a rougher way : 
Fainter grow the gleams of sunshine that upon the dark rocks play ; 
Rude winds strew the faded flowers upon the crags o'er which we pass ; 
Banks of verdure, when we reach them, hiss with tufts of withered grass, 
One by one we miss the voices which we loved so well to hear ; 
One by one the kindly faces in that shadow disappear. 



3°4 



LATER POEMS. 







The sheltered 



glens are lovely ana the rivulets song is sweet: 



THE TIDES. 365 

Yet upon the mist before us fix thine eyes with closer view ; 

See, beneath its sullen skirts, the rosy morning glimmers through. 

One whose feet the thorns have wounded passed that barrier and came back, 

With a glory on His footsteps lighting yet the dreary track. 

Boldly enter where He entered ; all that seems but darkness here, 

When thou once hast passed beyond it, haply shall be crystal-clear. 

Viewed from that serener realm, the walks of human life may lie, 

Like the page of some familiar volume, open to thine eye ; 

Haply, from the o'erhanging shadow, thou mayst stretch an unseen hand, 

To support the wavering steps that print with blood the rugged land. 

Haply, leaning o'er the pilgrim, all unweeting thou art near, 

Thou mayst whisper words of warning or of comfort in his ear, 

Till, beyond the border w T here that brooding mystery bars the sight, 

Those whom thou hast fondly cherished stand with thee in peace and light. 



THE TIDES. 



The moon is at her full, and, riding high, 

Floods the calm fields with light ; 
The airs that hover in the summer sky 

Are all asleep to-night. 

There comes no voice from the great woodlands round 

That murmured all the day ; 
Beneath the shadow of their boughs the ground 

Is not more still than they. 

But ever heaves and moans the restless Deep ; 

His rising tides I hear, 
Afar I see the glimmering billows leap ; 

I see them breaking near. 



366 LATER POEMS. 

Each wave springs upward, climbing toward the fair 

Pure light that sits on high- 
Springs eagerly, and faintly sinks, to where 

The mother-waters lie. 

Upward again it swells ; the moonbeams show 

Again its glimmering crest ; 
Again it feels the fatal weight below, 

And sinks, but not to rest. 

Again and yet again ; until the Deep 

Recalls his brood of waves ; 
And, with a sullen moan, abashed, they creep 

Back to his inner caves. 

Brief respite ! they shall rush from that recess 

With noise and tumult soon, 
And fling themselves, with unavailing stress, 

Up toward the placid moon. 

O restless Sea, that, in thy prison here, 

Dost struggle and complain ; 
Through the slow centuries yearning to be near 

To that fair orb in vain ; 

The glorious source of light and heat must warm 

Thy billows from on high, 
And change them to the cloudy trains that form 

The curtains of the sky. 

Then only may they leave the waste of brine 

In which they welter here, 
And rise above the hills of earth, and shine 

In a serener sphere. 



ITAL Y. 367 



ITALY. 



Voices from the mountains speak, 

Apennines to Alps reply ; 
Vale to vale and peak to peak 
Toss an old-remembered cry : 
"Italy 

Shall be free ! " 
Such the mighty shout that fills 
All the passes of her hills. 

All the old Italian lakes 

Quiver at that quickening word ; 
Como with a thrill awakes ; 
Garda to her depths is stirred ; 
Mid the steeps 
Where he sleeps, 
Dreaming of the elder years, 
Startled Thrasymenus hears. 

Sweeping Arno, swelling Po, 

Murmur freedom to their meads. 
Tiber swift and Liris slow 
Send strange whispers from their reeds. 
" Italy 

Shall be free ! " 
Sing the glittering brooks that slide, 
Toward the sea, from Etna's side. 

Long ago was Gracchus slain ; 

Brutus perished long ago ; 
Yet the living roots remain 

Whence the shoots of greatness grow, 



368 LATER POEMS. 

Yet again, 

Godlike men, 
Sprung from that heroic stem, 
Call the land to rise with them. 

They who haunt the swarming street, 
They who chase the mountain-boar, 
Or, where cliff and billow meet, 
Prune the vine or pull the oar, 
With a stroke 
Break their yoke ; 
Slaves but yestereve were they — 
Freemen with the dawning day. 

Looking in his children's eyes, 

While his own with gladness flash, 
" These," the Umbrian father cries, 
" Ne'er shall crouch beneath the lash ! 
These shall ne'er 
Brook to wear 
Chains whose cruel links are twined 
Round the crushed and withering mind.' 

Monarchs ! ye whose armies stand 

Harnessed for the battle-field ! 
Pause, and from the lifted hand 
Drop the bolts of war ye wield. 
Stand aloof 
While the proof 
Of the people's might is given ; 
Leave their kings to them and Heaven ! 

Stand aloof, and see the oppressed 
Chase the oppressor, pale with fear, 

As the fresh winds of the west 
Blow the misty valleys clear. 



A DAY-DREAM. 369 

Stand and see 

Italy 
Cast the gyves she wears no more 
To the gulfs that steep her shore. 



A DAY-DREAM. 

A day-dream by the dark-blue deep ; 

Was it a dream, or something more ? 
I sat where Posilippo's steep, 

With its gray shelves, o'erhung the shore. 

On ruined Roman walls around 

The poppy flaunted, for 'twas May ; 
And at my feet, with gentle sound, 

Broke the light billows of the bay. 

I sat and watched the eternal flow 
Of those smooth billows toward the shore, 

While quivering lines of light below 
Ran with them on the ocean-floor : 

Till, from the deep, there seemed to rise 
White arms upon the waves outspread, 

Young faces, lit with soft blue eyes, 

And smooth, round cheeks, just touched with red. 

Their long, fair tresses, tinged with gold, 

Lay floating on the ocean-streams, 
And such their brows as bards behold — 

Love-stricken bards — in morning dreams. 
24 



370 LATER POEMS. 

Then moved their coral lips ; a strain 
Low, sweet, and sorrowful, I heard, 

As if the murmurs of the main 
Were shaped to syllable and word : 

" The sight thou dimly dost behold, 
O stranger from a distant sky ! 

Was often, in the days of old, 
Seen by the dear, believing eye. 

" Then danced we on the wrinkled sand, 
Sat in cool caverns by the sea, 

Or wandered up the bloomy land, 
To talk with shepherds on the lea. 

" To us, in storms, the seaman prayed, 
And where our rustic altars stood, 

His little children came and laid 

The fairest flowers of field and wood. 

" Oh woe, a long, unending woe ! 

For who shall knit the ties again 
That linked the sea-nymphs, long ago, 

In kindly fellowship with men ? 

"Earth rears her flowers for us no more 
A half-remembered dream are we ; 

Unseen we haunt the sunny shore, 
And swim, unmarked, the glassy sea. 

" And we have none to love or aid, 
But wander, heedless of mankind, 

With shadows by the cloud-rack made, 
With moaning wave and sighing wind. 



THE RUINS OF ITALIC A. 371 

" Yet sometimes, as in elder clays, 

We come before the painter's eye, 
Or fix the sculptor's eager gaze, 

With no profaner witness nigh. 

" And then the words of men grow warm 

With praise and w T onder, asking where 
The artist saw the perfect form 

He copied forth in lines so fair." 

As thus they spoke, with wavering sweep 

Floated the graceful forms away ; 
Dimmer and dimmer, through the deep, 

I saw the white arms gleam and play. 

Fainter and fainter, on mine ear, 

Fell the soft accents of their speech, 
Till I, at last, could only hear 

The waves run murmuring up the beach. 



THE RUINS OF ITALIC A 

FROM THE SPANISH OF RIO J A. 



Fabius, this region, desolate and drear, 
These solitary fields, this shapeless mound, 
Were once Italica, the far-renowned ; 

For Scipio, the mighty, planted here 



372 LATER POEMS. 

His conquering colony, and now, o'erthrown, 
Lie its once-dreaded walls of massive stone. 

Sad relics, sad and vain, 

Of those invincible men 

Who held the region then. 
Funereal memories alone remain 

Where forms of high example walked of yore. 
Here lay the forum, there arose the fane — 

The eye beholds their places, and no more. 
Their proud gymnasium and their sumptuous baths, 
Resolved to dust and cinders, strew the paths ; 
Their towers, that looked defiance at the sky, 
Fallen by their own vast weight, in fragments lie. 



II. 



This broken circus, where the rock-weeds climb, 
Flaunting with yellow blossoms, and defy 
The gods to whom its walls were piled so high, 

Is now a tragic theatre, where Time 

Acts his great fable, spreads a stage that shows 

Past grandeur's story and its dreary close. 
Why, round this desert pit, 
Shout not the applauding rows 
Where the great people sit ? 

Wild beasts are here, but where the combatant ; 
With his bare arms, the strong athleta where ! 

All have departed from this once gay haunt 
Of noisy crowds, and silence holds the air. 

Yet, on this spot, Time gives us to behold 

A spectacle as stern as those of old. 

As dreamily I gaze, there seem to rise, 

From all the mighty ruin, wailing cries. 



THE RUINS OF ITALICA. 373 

III. 

The terrible in war, the pride of Spain, 

Trajan, his country's father, here was born ; 
Good, fortunate, triumphant, to whose reign 

Submitted the far regions, where the Morn 
Rose from her cradle, and the shore whose steeps 
O'erlooked the conquered Gaditanian deeps. 
Of mighty Adrian here, 
Of Theodosius, saint, 
Of Silius, Virgil's peer, 
Were rocked the cradles, rich with gold, and quaint 
With ivory carvings ; here were laurel-boughs 
And sprays of jasmine gathered for their brows, 

From gardens now a marshy, thorny waste. 
Where rose the palace, reared for Caesar, yawn 

Foul rifts to which the scudding lizards haste. 
Palaces, gardens, Caesars, all are gone, 
And even the stones their names were graven on. 

IV. 

Fabius, if tears prevent thee not, survey 

The long-dismantled streets, so thronged of old, 
The broken marbles, arches in decay, 

Proud statues, toppled from their place and rolled 
In dust, when Nemesis, the avenger, came, 
And buried, in forgetfulness profound, 
The owners and their fame. 
Thus Troy, I deem, must be, 
With many a mouldering mound ; 
And thou, whose name alone remains to thee, 
Rome, of old gods and kings the native ground ; 
And thou, sage Athens, built by Pallas, whom 
Just laws redeemed not from the appointed doom. 



374 LATER POEMS. 

The envy of earth's cities once wert thou — 
A weary solitude and ashes now ! 
For Fate and Death respect ye not : they strike 
The mighty city and the wise alike. 

v. 

But why goes forth the wandering thought to frame 
New themes of sorrow, sought in distant lands ? 
Enough the example that before me stands ; 

For here are smoke-wreaths seen, and glimmering flame, 

And hoarse lamentings on the breezes die ; 

So doth the mighty ruin cast its spell 
On those who near it dwell. 
And under night's still sky, 
As awe-struck peasants tell, 

A melancholy voice is heard to cry, 
" Italica is fallen ! " the echoes then 
Mournfully shout " Italica" again. 

The leafy alleys of the forest nigh 
Murmur " Italica," and all around, 
A troop of mighty shadows, at the sound 

Of that illustrious name, repeat the call, 

" Italica ! " from ruined tower and wall. 



WAITING BY THE GATE. 

Beside a massive gateway built up in years gone by, 
Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie, 
While streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea, 
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. 



WAITING AT THE GATE. 



375 




" A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair, 
Moves mournfully aivay fro7n amid the young and fair.' 



376 LATER POEMS. 

The tree-tops faintly rustle beneath the breeze's flight, 
A soft and soothing sound, yet it whispers of the night ; 
I hear the wood-thrush piping one mellow descant more, 
Aud scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er. 

Behold, the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now, 
There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed brow ; 
His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought ; 
He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not. 

In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour 
Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power. 
I muse while still the wood-thrush sings down the golden day, 
And as I look and listen the sadness wears away. 

Again the hinges turn, and a youth, departing, throws 
A look of longing backward, and sorrowfully goes ; 
A blooming maid, unbinding the roses from her hair, 
Moves mournfully away from amid the young and fair. 

O glory of our race that so suddenly decays ! 

O crimson flush of morning that darkens as we gaze ! 

breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air 
Scatters a moment's sweetness, and flies we know not where ! 

1 grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn ; 
But still the sun shines round me : the evening bird sings on, 
And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate, 

In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait. 

Once more the gates are opened ; an infant group go out. 
The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout. 
O frail, frail tree of Life, that upon the greensward strows 
Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows ! 



NOT YET. 

So come from every region, so enter, side by side, 
The strong- and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride. 
Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars gray, 
And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way. 

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear, 
And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near, 
As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious eye 
Of Him, the Sinless Teacher, who came for us to die. 

I mark the joy, the terror ; yet these, within my heart, 
Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart ; 
And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea, 
I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. 



377 



NOT YET. 



O country, marvel of the earth ! 

O realm to sudden greatness grown ! 
The age that gloried in thy birth, 

Shall it behold thee overthrown ? 
Shall traitors lay that greatness low ? 
No, land of Hope and Blessing, No ! 

And we, who wear thy glorious name, 
Shall we, like cravens, stand apart, 

When those whom thou hast trusted aim 
The death-blow at thy generous heart ? 

Forth goes the battle-cry, and lo ! 

Hosts rise in harness, shouting, No ! 



378 LATER POEMS. 

And they who founded, in our land, 
The power that rules from sea to sea, 

Bled they in vain, or vainly planned 
To leave their country great and free ? 

Their sleeping ashes, from below, 

Send up the thrilling murmur, No ! 

Knit they the gentle ties which long 
These sister States were proud to wear, 

And forged the kindly links so strong 
For idle hands in sport to tear? 

For scornful hands aside to throw ? 

No, by our fathers' memory, No ! 

Our humming marts, our iron ways, 

Our wind-tossed woods on mountain-crest, 

The hoarse Atlantic, with its bays, 
The calm, broad Ocean of the West, 

And Mississippi's torrent-flow, 

And loud Niagara, answer, No ! 

Not yet the hour is nigh when they 
Who deep in Eld's dim twilight sit, 

Earth's ancient kings, shall rise and say, 
" Proud country, welcome to the pit ! 

So soon art thou, like us, brought low ! " 

No, sullen group of shadows, No ! 

For now, behold, the arm that gave 
The victory in our fathers' day, 

Strong, as of old, to guard and save — 
That mighty arm which none can stay — 

On clouds above and fields below, 

Writes, in men's sight, the answer, No ! 

July, 1861. 



OUR COUNTRY'S CALL. 379 



OUR COUNTRY'S CALL. 

Lay down the axe ; fling by the spade ; 

Leave in its track the toiling plough ; 
The rifle and the bayonet-blade 

For arms like yours were titter now ; 
And let the hands that ply the pen 

Quit the light task, and learn to wield 
The horseman's crooked brand, and rein 

The charger on the battle-held. 

Our country calls ; away ! away ! 

To where the blood-stream blots the green. 
Strike to defend the gentlest sway 

That Time in all his course has seen. 
See, from a thousand coverts — see, 

Spring the armed foes that haunt her track 
They rush to smite her down, and we 

Must beat the banded traitors back. 

Ho ! sturdy as the oaks ye cleave, 

And moved as soon to fear and flight, 
Men of the glade and forest ! leave 

Your woodcraft for the field of fight. 
The arms that wield the axe must pour 

An iron tempest on the foe ; 
His serried ranks shall reel before 

The arm that lays the panther low. 

And ye, who breast the mountain-storm 
By grassy steep or highland lake, 

Come, for the land ye love, to form 
A bulwark that no foe can break. 



380 LATER POEMS. 

Stand, like your own gray cliffs that mock 
The whirlwind, stand in her defence ; 

The blast as soon shall move the rock 
As rushing squadrons bear ye thence. 

And ye, whose homes are by her grand 

Swift rivers, rising far away, 
Come from the depth of her green land, 

As mighty in your march as they ; 
As terrible as when the rains 

Have swelled them over bank and bourne, 
With sudden floods to drown the plains 

And sweep along the woods uptorn. 

And ye, who throng, beside the deep, 

Her ports and hamlets of the strand, 
In number like the waves that leap 

On his long-murmuring marge of sand — 
Come like that deep, when, o'er his brim, 

He rises, all his floods to pour, 
And flings the proudest barks that swim, 

A helpless wreck, against his shore ! 

Few, few were they whose swords of old 

Won the fair land in which we dwell ; 
But we are many, we who hold 

The grim resolve to guard it well. 
Strike, for that broad and goodly land, 

Blow after blow, till men shall see 
That Might and Right move hand in hand, 

And glorious must their triumph be ! 

September, 1861. 



THE CONSTELLATIONS. 381 



THE CONSTELLATIONS. 

O Constellations of the early night, 

That sparkled brighter as the twilight died, 

And made the darkness glorious ! I have seen 

Your rays grow dim upon the horizon's edge, 

And sink behind the mountains. I have seen 

The great Orion, with his jewelled belt, 

That large-limbed warrior of the skies, go down 

Into the gloom. Beside him sank a crowd 

Of shining ones. I look in vain to find 

The group of sister-stars, which mothers love 

To show their wondering babes, the gentle Seven. 

Along the desert space mine eyes in vain 

Seek the resplendent cressets which the Twins 

Uplifted in their ever-youthful hands. 

The streaming tresses of the Egyptian Queen 

Spangle the heavens no more. The Virgin trails 

No more her glittering garments through the blue. 

Gone ! all are gone ! and the forsaken Night, 

With all her winds, in all her dreary wastes, 

Sighs that they shine upon her face no more. 

Now only here and there a little star 
Looks forth alone. Ah me ! I know them not, 
Those dim successors of the numberless host 
That filled the heavenly fields, and flung to earth 
Their quivering fires. And now the middle watch 
Betwixt the eve and morn is past, and still 
The darkness gains upon the sky, and still 
It closes round my way. Shall, then, the Night, 
Grow starless in her later hours ? Have these 



382 LATER POEMS. 

No train of flaming watchers, that shall mark 

Their coming and farewell ? O Sons of Light ! 

Have ye then left me ere the dawn of day 

To grope along my journey sad and faint ? 

Thus I complained, and from the darkness round 

A voice replied — was it indeed a voice, 

Or seeming accents of a waking dream 

Heard by the inner ear? But thus it said: 

O Traveller of the Night ! thine eyes are dim 

With watching ; and the mists, that chill the vale 

Down which thy feet are passing, hide from view 

The ever-burning stars. It is thy sight 

That is so dark, and not the heavens. Thine eyes, 

Were they but clear, would see a fiery host 

Above thee ; Hercules, with flashing mace, 

The Lyre with silver chords, the Swan uppoised 

On gleaming wings, the Dolphin gliding on 

With glistening scales, and that poetic steed, 

With beamy mane, whose hoof struck out from earth 

The fount of Hippocrene, and many more, 

Fair clustered splendors, with whose rays the Night 

Shall close her march in glory, ere she yield, 

To the young Day, the great earth steeped in dew. 

So spake the monitor, and I perceived 
How vain were my repinings, and my thought 
Went backward to the vanished years and all 
The good and great who came and passed with them, 
And knew that ever would the years to come 
Bring with them, in their course, the good and great, 
Lights of the world, though, to my clouded sight, 
Their rays might seem but dim, or reach me not. 



THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER, 1861. 383 



THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER, 1861. 

Softly breathes the west-wind beside the ruddy forest 
Taking leaf by leaf from the branches where he flies. 

Sweetly streams the sunshine, this third day of November, 
Through the golden haze of the quiet autumn skies. 

Tenderly the season has spared the grassy meadows, 

Spared the petted flowers that the old world gave the new, 

Spared the autumn-rose and the garden's group of pansies, 
Late-blown dandelions and periwinkles blue. 

On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungathered ; 

Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, 
Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them 

Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree. 

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, 
Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green. 

Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing 

With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen. 

Like this kindly season may life's decline come o'er me ; 

Past is manhood's summer, the frosty months are here ; 
Yet be genial airs and a pleasant sunshine left me, 

Leaf, and fruit, and blossom, to mark the closing year ! 

Dreary is the time when the flowers of earth are withered ; 

Dreary is the time when the woodland leaves are cast — 
When, upon the hillside, all hardened into iron, 

Howling, like a wolf, flies the famished northern blast. 



384 LATER POEMS. ■ 

Dreary are the years when the eye can look no longer 
With delight on Nature, or hope on human kind ; 

Oh, may those that whiten my temples, as they pass me, 
Leave the heart unfrozen, and spare the cheerful mind ! 



THE MOTHER'S HYMN. 

Lord, who ordainest for mankind 
Benignant toils and tender cares ! 

We thank Thee for the ties that bind 
The mother to the child she bears. 

We thank Thee for the hopes that rise, 
Within her heart, as, day by day, 

The dawning soul, from those young eyes, 
Looks, with a clearer, steadier ray. 

And grateful for the blessing given 
With that dear infant on her knee, 

She trains the eye to look to heaven, 
The voice to lisp a prayer to Thee. 

Such thanks the blessed Mary gave, 
When, from her lap, the Holy Child, 

Sent from on high to seek and save 
The lost of earth, looked up and smiled. 

All-Gracious ! grant, to those who bear 
A mother's charge, the strength and light 

To lead the steps that own their care 
In ways of Love, and Truth, and Right. 



SELLA. 385 



SELLA. 



Hear now a legend of the days of old — 
The days when there were goodly marvels yet, 
When man to man gave willing faith, and loved 
A tale the better that 'twas wild and strange. 

Beside a pleasant dwelling ran a brook 
Scudding along a narrow channel, paved 
With green and yellow pebbles ; yet full clear 
Its waters were, and colorless and cool, 
As fresh from granite rocks. A maiden oft 
Stood at the open window, leaning out, 
And listening to the sound the water made, 
A sweet, eternal murmur, still the same, 
And not the same ; and oft, as spring came on, 
She gathered violets from its fresh moist bank, 
To place within her bower, and when the herbs 
Of summer drooped beneath the mid-day sun. 
She sat within the shade of a great rock, 
Dreamily listening to the streamlet's song. 

Ripe were the maiden's years ; her stature showed 
Womanly beauty, and her clear, calm eye 
Was bright with venturous spirit, yet her face 
Was passionless, like those by sculptor graved 
For niches in a temple. Lovers oft 
Had wooed her, but she only laughed at love, 
And wondered at the silly things they said. 
'Twas her delight to wander where wild-vines 
O'erhang the river's brim, to climb the path 
Of woodland streamlet to its mountain-springs, 
To sit by gleaming wells and mark below 
The image of the rushes on its edge, 
25 



386 LATER POEMS. 

And, deep beyond, the trailing clouds that slid 

Across the fair blue space. No little fount 

Stole forth from hanging rock, or in the side 

Of hollow dell, or under roots of oak ; 

No rill came trickling, with a stripe of green, 

Down the bare hill, that to this maiden's eye 

Was not familiar. Often did the banks 

Of river or of sylvan lakelet hear 

The dip of oars with which the maiden rowed 

Her shallop, pushing ever from the prow 

A crowd of long, light ripples toward the shore. 

Two brothers had the maiden, and she thought, 
Within herself: " I would I were like them ; 
For then I might go forth alone, to trace 
The mighty rivers downward to the sea, 
And upward to the brooks that, through the year, 
Prattle to the cool valleys. I would know 
What races drink their waters ; how their chiefs 
Bear rule, and how men worship there, and how 
They build, and to what quaint device they frame, 
Where sea and river meet, their stately ships ; 
What flowers are in their gardens, and what trees 
Bear fruit within their orchards ; in what garb 
Their bowmen meet on holidays, and how 
Their maidens bind the waist and braid the hair. 
Here, on these hills, my father's house o'erlooks 
Broad pastures grazed by flocks and herds, but there 
I hear they sprinkle the great plains with corn 
And watch its springing up, and when the green 
Is changed to gold, they cut the stems and bring 
. The harvest in and give the nations bread. 
And there they hew the quarry into shafts. 
And pile up glorious temples from the rock, 
And chisel the rude stones to shapes of men. 



SELLA. 387 

All this I pine to see, and would have seen, 
But that I am a woman, long ago." 

Thus in her wanderings did the maiden dream, 
Until, at length, one morn in early spring, 
When all the glistening fields lay white with frost, 
She came half breathless where her mother sat : 
" See, mother dear," she said, "what I have found, 
Upon our rivulet's bank ; two slippers, white 
As the midwinter snow, and spangled o'er 
With twinkling points, like stars, and on the edge 
My name is wrought in silver ; read, I pray, 
Sella, the name thy mother, now in heaven, 
Gave at thy birth ; and sure, they fit my feet ! " 
" A dainty pair," the prudent matron said, 
" But thine they are not. We must lay them by 
For those, whose careless hands have left them here ; 
Or haply they were placed beside the brook 
To be a snare. I cannot see thy name 
Upon the border — only characters 
Of mystic look and dim are there, like signs 
Of some strange art ; nay, daughter, wear them not." 

Then Sella hung the slippers in the porch 
Of that broad rustic lodge, and all who passed 
Admired their fair contexture, but none knew 
Who left them by the brook. And now, at length, 
May, with her flowers and singing birds, had gone, 
And on bright streams and into deep wells shone 
The high, midsummer sun. One day, at noon, 
Sella was missed from the accustomed meal. 
They sought her in her favorite haunts, they looked 
By the great rock and far along the stream, 
And shouted in the sounding woods her name. 
Night came, and forth the sorrowing household went 
With torches over the wide pasture-grounds 



LATER POEMS. 

To pool and thicket, marsh and briery dell, 

And solitary valley far away. 

The morning came, and Sella was not found. 

The sun climbed high ; they sought her still ; the noon, 

The hot and silent noon, heard Sella's name, 

Uttered with a despairing cry, to wastes 

O'er which the eagle hovered. As the sun 

Stooped toward the amber west to bring the close 

Of that sad second day, and, with red eyes, 

The mother sat within her home alone, 

Sella was at her side. A shriek of joy 

Broke the sad silence ; glad, warm tears were shed, 

And words of gladness uttered. " Oh, forgive," 

The maiden said, "that I could e'er forget 

Thy wishes for a moment ! I just tried 

The slippers on, amazed to see them shaped 

So fairly to my feet, when, all at once, 

I felt my steps upborne and hurried on 

Almost as if with wings. A strange delight, 

Blent with a thrill of fear, o'ermastered me, 

And, ere I knew, my plashing steps were set 

Within the rivulet's pebbly bed, and I 

Was rushing down the current. By my side 

Tripped one as beautiful as ever looked 

From white clouds in a dream ; and, as we ran, 

She talked with musical voice and sweetly laughed. 

Gayly we leaped the crag and swam the pool, 

And swept with dimpling eddies round the rock, 

And glided between shady meadow-banks. 

The streamlet, broadening as we went, became 

A swelling river, and we shot along 

By stately towns, and under leaning masts 

Of gallant barks, nor lingered by the shore 

Of blooming gardens ; onward, onward still, 



SELLA. 



389 



TFm^j^km^^M^ 



— - 



A~ 







11 ... . Q/? ■zt/tf ^roif a: waste of pearly sands, 
Spotted with rosy shells, and thence looked hi 
At caverns of the sea whose rock-roofed halls 
Lay in blue twilight.' 1 '' 



39° LATER POEMS. 

The same strong impulse bore me till, at last, 

We entered the great deep, and passed below 

His billows, into boundless spaces, lit 

With a green sunshine. Here were mighty groves 

Far down the ocean-valleys, and between 

Lay what might seem fair meadows, softly tinged 

With orange and with crimson. Here arose 

Tall stems, that, rooted in the depths below, 

Swung idly with the motions of the sea; 

And here were shrubberies in whose mazy screen 

The creatures of the deep made haunt. My friend 

Named the strange growths, the pretty coralline, 

The dulse with crimson leaves, and, streaming far, 

Sea-thong and sea-lace. Here the tangle spread 

Its broad, thick fronds, with pleasant bowers beneath ; 

And oft we trod a waste of pearly sands, 

Spotted with rosy shells, and thence looked in 

At caverns of the sea whose rock-roofed halls 

Lay in blue twilight. As we moved along, 

The dwellers of the deep, in mighty herds, 

Passed by us, reverently they passed us by, 

Long trains of dolphins rolling through the brine, 

Huge whales, that drew the waters after them, 

A torrent-stream, and hideous hammer-sharks, 

Chasing their prey ; I shuddered as they came ; 

Gently they turned aside and gave us room." 

Hereat broke in the mother: "Sella, dear, 
This is a dream, the idlest, vainest dream." 

" Nay, mother, nay ; behold this sea-green scarf, 
Woven of such threads as never human hand 
Twined from the distaff. She who led my way 
Through the great waters, bade me wear it home, 
A token that my tale is true. ' And keep,' 
She said, ' the slippers thou hast found, for thou, 



SELLA. 391 

When shod with them, shall be like one of us. 

With power to walk at will the ocean-floor, 

Among its monstrous creatures, unafraid, 

And feel no longing for the air of heaven 

To fill thy lungs, and send the warm, red blood 

Along thy veins. But thou shalt pass the hours 

In dances with the sea-nymphs, or go forth, 

To look into the mysteries of the abyss 

Where never plummet reached. And thou shalt sleep 

Thy weariness away on downy banks 

Of sea-moss, where the pulses of the tide 

Shall gently lift thy hair, or thou shalt float 

On the soft currents that go forth and wind 

From isle to isle, and wander through the sea.' 

" So spake my fellow-voyager, her words 
Sounding like wavelets on a summer shore, 
And then we stopped beside a hanging rock, 
With a smooth beach of white sands at its foot, 
Where three fair creatures like herself were set 
At their sea-banquet, crisp and juicy stalks, 
Culled from the ocean's meadows, and the sweet 
Midrib of pleasant leaves, and golden fruits 
Dropped from the trees that edge the southern isles, 
And gathered on the waves. Kindly they prayed 
That I would share their meal, and I partook 
With eager appetite, for long had been 
My journey, and I left the spot refreshed. 

" And then we wandered off amid the groves 
Of coral loftier than the growths of earth ; 
The mightiest cedar lifts no trunk like theirs, 
So huge, so high toward heaven, nor overhangs 
Alleys and bowers so dim. We moved between 
Pinnacles of black rock, which, from beneath, 
Molten by inner fires, so said my guide, 



392 LATER POEMS. 

Gushed long ago into the hissing brine, 

That quenched and hardened them, and now they stand 

Motionless in the currents of the sea 

That part and flow around them. As we went, 

We looked into the hollows of the abyss, 

To which the never-resting waters sweep 

The skeletons of sharks, the long white spines 

Of narwhal and of dolphin, bones of men 

Shipwrecked, and mighty ribs of foundered barks. 

Down the blue pits we looked, and hastened on. 

" But beautiful the fountains of the sea 
Sprang upward from its bed ; the silvery jets 
Shot branching far into the azure brine, 
And where they mingled with it, the great deep 
Quivered and shook, as shakes the glimmering air 
Above a furnace. So we wandered through 
The mighty world of waters, till at length 
I wearied of its wonders, and my heart 
Began to yearn for my dear mountain-home. 
I prayed my gentle guide to lead me back 
To the upper air. • A glorious realm,' I said, 
• Is this thou openest to me ; but I stray 
Bewildered in its vastness ; these strange sights 
And this strange light oppress me. I must see 
The faces that I love, or I shall die.' 

" She took my hand, and, darting through the waves, 
Brought me to where the stream, by which we came, 
Rushed into the main ocean. Then began 
A slower journey upward. Wearily 
We breasted the strong current, climbing through 
The rapids, tossing high their foam. The night 
Came down, and in the clear depth of a pool, 
Edged with o'erhanging rock, we took our rest 
Till morning ; and I slept, and dreamed of home 



SELLA. 

And thee. A pleasant sight the morning showed ; 
The green fields of this upper world, the herds 
That grazed the bank, the light on the red clouds, 
The trees, with all their host of trembling leaves, 
Lifting and lowering to the restless wind 
Their branches. As I woke, I saw them all 
From the clear stream ; yet strangely was my heart 
Parted between the watery world and this, 
And as we journeyed upward, oft I thought 
Of marvels I had seen, and stopped and turned, 
And lingered, till I thought of thee again ; 
And then again I turned and clambered up 
The rivulet's murmuring path, until we came 
Beside this cottage-door. There tenderly 
My fair conductor kissed me, and I saw 
Her face no more. I took the slippers off. 
Oh ! with what deep delight my lungs drew in 
The air of heaven again, and with what joy 
I felt my blood bound with its former glow ; 
And now I never leave thy side again ! " 

So spoke the maiden Sella, with large tears 
Standing in her mild eyes, and in the porch 
Replaced the slippers. Autumn came and went ; 
The winter passed ; another summer warmed 
The quiet pools ; another autumn tinged 
The grape with red, yet while it hung unplucked, 
The mother ere her time was carried forth 
To sleep among the solitary hills. 

A long, still sadness settled on that home 
Among the mountains. The stern father there 
Wept with his children, and grew soft of heart, 
And Sella, and the brothers twain, and one 
Younger then they, a sister fair and shy, 
Strewed the new grave with flowers, and round it set 



393 



394 LATER POEMS. 

Shrubs that all winter held their lively green. 

Time passed ; the grief with which their hearts were wrung 

Waned to a gentle sorrow. Sella, now, 

Was often absent from the patriarch's board ; 

The slippers hung no longer in the porch ; 

And sometimes after summer nights her couch 

Was found unpressed at dawn, and well they knew 

That she was wandering with the race who make 

Their dwelling in the waters. Oft her looks 

Fixed on blank space, and oft the ill-suited word 

Told that her thoughts were far away. In vain 

Her brothers reasoned with her tenderly, 

" Oh leave not thus thy kindred ! " so they prayed ; 

" Dear Sella, now that she who gave us birth 

Is in her grave, oh go not hence, to seek 

Companions in that strange cold realm below, 

For which God made not us nor thee, but stay 

To be the grace and glory of our home.' 1 

She looked at them with those mild eyes and wept, 

But said no word in answer, nor refrained 

From those mysterious wanderings that filled 

Their loving hearts with a perpetual pain. 

And now the younger sister, fair and shy, 
Had grown to early womanhood, and one 
Who loved her well had wooed her for his bride, 
And she had named the wedding-day. The herd 
Had given its fatlings for the marriage-feast ; 
The roadside garden and the secret glen 
Were rifled of their sweetest flowers to twine 
The door-posts, and to lie among the locks 
Of maids, the wedding-guests, and from the boughs 
Of mountain-orchards had the fairest fruit 
Been plucked to glisten in the canisters. 

Then, trooping over hill and valley, came 



SELLA. 

Matron and maid, grave men and smiling youths, 

Like swallows gathering for their autumn flight, 

In costumes of that simpler age they came, 

That gave the limbs large play, and wrapped the form 

In easy folds, yet bright with glowing hues, 

As suited holidays. All hastened on 

To that glad bridal. There already stood 

The priest prepared to say the spousal rite, 

And there the harpers in due order sat, 

And there the singers. Sella, midst them all, 

Moved strangely and serenely beautiful, 

With clear blue eyes, fair locks, and brow and cheek 

Colorless as the lily of the lakes, 

Yet moulded to such shape as artists give 

To beings of immortal youth. Her hands 

Had decked her sister for the bridal hour 

With chosen flowers, and lawn whose delicate threads 

Vied with the spider's spinning. There she stood 

With such a gentle pleasure in her looks 

As might beseem a river-nymph's soft eyes 

Gracing a bridal of the race whose flocks 

Were pastured on the borders of her stream. 

She smiled, but from that calm sweet face the smile 
Was soon to pass away. That very morn 
The elder of the brothers, as he stood 
Upon the hillside, had beheld the maid, 
Emerging from the channel of the brook, 
With three fresh water-lilies in her hand, 
Wring dry her dripping locks, and in a cleft 
Of hanging rock, beside a screen of boughs, 
Bestow the spangled slippers. None before 
Had known where Sella hid them. Then she laid 
The light-brown tresses smooth, and in them twined 
The lily-buds, and hastily drew forth 



395 



396 



LATER POEMS. 







1,4 7"A*? elder of the brothers, as he stood 
Upon the hillside ; had beheld the maid, 
Emerging from the cha?mel of the brook, 
With three fresh water-lilies in her hand. 



SELLA. 397 

And threw across her shoulders a light robe 
Wrought for the bridal, and with bounding steps 
Ran toward the lodge. The youth beheld and marked 
The spot, and slowly followed from afar. 

Now had the marriage-rite been said ; the bride 
Stood in the blush that from her burning cheek 
Glowed down the alabaster neck, as morn 
Crimsons the pearly heaven half-way to the west. 
At once the harpers struck their chords : a gush 
Of music broke upon the air ; the youths 
All started to the dance. Among them moved 
The queenly Sella with a grace that seemed 
Caught from the swaying of the summer sea. 
The young drew forth the elders to the dance, 
Who joined it half abashed, but when they felt 
The joyous music tingling in their veins, 
They called for quaint old measures, which they trod 
As gayly as in youth, and far abroad 
Came through the open windows cheerful shouts 
And bursts of laughter. They who heard the sound 
Upon the mountain footpaths paused and said, 
" A merry wedding." Lovers stole away 
That sunny afternoon to bowers that edged 
The garden-walks, and what was whispered there 
The lovers of these later times can guess. 

Meanwhile the brothers, when the merry din 
Was loudest, stole to where the slippers lay, 
And took them thence, and followed down the brook 
To where a little rapid rushed between 
Its borders of smooth rock, and dropped them in. 
The rivulet, as they touched its face, flung up 
Its small bright waves like hands, and seemed to take 
The prize with eagerness and draw it down. 
They, gleaming through the waters as they went, 



398 LATER POEMS. 

And striking with light sound the shining stones, 

Slid down the stream. The brothers looked and watched 

And listened with full beating hearts, till now 

The sight and sound had passed, and silently 

And half repentant hastened to the lodge. 

The sun was near his set ; the music rang 
Within the dwelling still, but the mirth waned ; 
For groups of guests were sauntering toward their homes 
Across the fields, and far, on hillside paths, 
Gleamed the white robes of maidens. Sella grew 
Weary of the long merriment ; she thought 
Of her still haunts beneath the soundless sea, 
And all unseen withdrew and sought the cleft 
Where she had laid the slippers. They were gone ! 
She searched the brookside near, yet found them not. 
Then her heart sank within her, and she ran 
Wildly from place to place, and once again 
She searched the secret cleft, and next she stooped 
And with spread palms felt carefully beneath 
The tufted herbs and bushes, and again, 
And yet again she searched the rocky cleft. 
" Who could have taken them ? " That question cleared 
The mystery. She remembered suddenly 
That when the dance was in its gayest whirl, 
Her brothers were not seen, and when, at length, 
They reappeared, the elder joined the sports 
With shouts of boisterous mirth, and from her eye 
The younger shrank in silence. " Now, I know 
The guilty ones," she said, and left the spot, 
And stood before the youths with such a look 
Of anguish and reproach that well they knew 
Her thought, and almost wished the deed undone. 

Frankly they owned the charge : " And pardon us; 
We did it all in love ; we could not bear 



SELLA. 

That the cold world of waters and the strange 

Beings that dwell within it should beguile 

Our sister from us." Then they told her all ; 

How they had seen her stealthily bestow 

The slippers in the cleft, and how by stealth 

They took them thence and bore them down the brook, 

And dropped them in, and how the eager waves 

Gathered and drew them down : but at that word 

The maiden shrieked — a broken-hearted shriek — 

And all who heard it shuddered and turned pale 

At the despairing cry, and " They are gone," 

She said, "gone — gone forever ! Cruel ones ! 

'Tis you who shut me out eternally 

From that serener world which I had learned 

To love so well. Why took ye not my life ? 

Ye cannot know what ye have done ! " She spake 

And hurried to her chamber, and the guests 

Who yet had lingered silently withdrew. 

The brothers followed to the maiden's bower, 
But with a calm demeanor, as they came, 
She met them at the door. " The wrong is great," 
She said, " that ye have done me, but no power 
Have ye to make it less, nor yet to soothe 
My sorrow ; I shall bear it as I may, 
The better for the hours that I have passed 
In the calm region of the middle sea. 
Go, then. I need you not." They, overawed, 
Withdrew from that grave presence. Then her tears 
Broke forth a flood, as when the August cloud, 
Darkening beside the mountain, suddenly 
Melts into streams of rain. That wear)' night 
She paced her chamber, murmuring as she walked : 
" O peaceful region of the middle sea ! 
O azure bowers and grots, in which I loved 



399 



400 LATER POEMS. 

To roam and rest ! Am I to long for you, 
And think how strangely beautiful ye are, 
Yet never see you more ? And dearer yet, 
Ye gentle ones in whose sweet company 
I trod the shelly pavements of the deep, 
And swam its currents, creatures with calm eyes 
Looking the tenderest love, and voices soft 
As ripple of light waves along the shore, 
Uttering the tenderest words ! Oh ! ne'er again 
Shall I, in your mild aspects, read the peace 
That dwells within, and vainly shall I pine 
To hear your sweet low voices. Haply, now 
Ye miss me in your deep-sea home, and think 
Of me with pity, as of one condemned 
To haunt this upper world, with its harsh sounds 
And glaring lights, its withering heats, its frosts, 
Cruel and killing, its delirious strifes, 
And all its feverish passions, till I die." 

So mourned she the long night, and when the morn 
Brightened the mountains, from her lattice looked 
The maiden on a world that was to her 
A desolate and dreary waste. That day 
She passed in wandering by the brook that oft 
Had been her pathway to the sea, and still 
Seemed, with its cheerful murmur, to invite 
Her footsteps thither. " Well mayst thou rejoice, 
Fortunate stream ! " she said, " and dance along 
Thy bed, and make thy course one ceaseless strain 
Of music, for thou journeyest toward the deep, 
To which I shall return no more." The night 
Brought her to her lone chamber, and she knelt 
And prayed, with many tears, to Him whose hand 
Touches the wounded heart and it is healed. 
With prayer there came new thoughts and new desires. 



SELLA. 401 

She asked for patience and a deeper love 

For those with whom her lot was henceforth cast, 

And that in acts of mercy she might lose 

The sense of her own sorrow. When she rose 

A weight was lifted from her heart. She sought 

Her couch, and slept a long and peaceful sleep. 

At morn she woke to a new life. Her days 

Henceforth were given to quiet tasks of good 

In the great world. Men hearkened to her words, 

And wondered at their wisdom and obeyed, 

And saw how beautiful the law of love 

Can make the cares and toils of daily life. 

Still did she love to haunt the springs and brooks, 
As in her cheerful childhood, and she taught 
The skill to pierce the soil and meet the veins 
Of clear cold water winding underneath, 
And call them forth to daylight. From afar 
She bade men bring the rivers on long rows 
Of pillared arches to the sultry town, 
And on the hot air of the summer fling 
The spray of dashing fountains. To relieve 
Their weary hands, she showed them how to tame 
The rushing stream, and make him drive the wheel 
That whirls the humming millstone and that wields 
The ponderous sledge. The waters of the cloud, 
That drench the hillside in the time of rains, 
Were gathered, at her bidding, into pools, 
And in the months of drought led forth again, 
In glimmering rivulets, to refresh the vales, 
Till the sky darkened with returning showers. 

So passed her life, a long and blameless life, 
And far and near her name was named with love 
And reverence. Still she kept, as age came on, 
Her stately presence ; still her eyes looked forth 
26 



402 LATER POEMS. 

From under their calm brows as brightly clear 

As the transparent wells by which she sat 

So oft in childhood. Still she kept her fair 

Unwrinkled features, though her locks were white. 

A hundred times had summer, since her birth, 

Opened the water-lily on the lakes, 

So old traditions tell, before she died. 

A hundred cities mourned her, and her death 

Saddened the pastoral valleys. By the brook, 

That bickering ran beside the cottage-door 

Where she was born, they reared her monument. 

Ere long the current parted and flowed round 

The marble base, forming a little isle, 

And there the flowers that love the running stream, 

Iris and orchis, and the cardinal-flower, 

Crowded and hung caressingly around 

The stone engraved with Sella's honored name. 



THE FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEY. 

TRANSLATED. 

Aurora, rising from her couch beside 

The famed Tithonus, brought the light ot day 

To men and to immortals. Then the gods 

Came to their seats in council. With them came 

High-thundering Jupiter, among them all 

'The mightiest. Pallas, mindful of the past, 

Spoke of Ulysses and his many woes, 

Grieved that he still was with the island-nymph. 



FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEY. 403 

" O father Jove, and all ye blessed ones 
Who live forever ! let not sceptred king, 
Henceforth, be gracious, mild, and merciful, 
And righteous ; rather be he deaf to prayer, 
And prone to deeds of wrong, since no one now 
Remembers the divine Ulysses more 
Among the people over whom he ruled, 
Benignly, like a father. Still he lies, 
Weighed down by many sorrows, in the isle 
And dwelling of Calypso, who so long 
Constrains his stay. To his dear native land 
Depart he cannot ; ship, arrayed with oars, 
And seamen has he none, to bear him o'er 
The breast of the broad ocean. Nay, even now, 
Against his well-beloved son a plot 
Is laid, to slay him as he journeys home 
From Pylos the divine, and from the walls 
Of famous Sparta, whither he had gone 
To gather tidings of his father's fate." 

Then answered her the ruler of the storms : 
" My child, what words are these that pass thy lips ? 
Was not thy long-determined counsel this, 
That, in good time, Ulysses should return, 
To be avenged ? Guide, then, Telemachus, 
Wisely, for so thou canst, that, all unharmed, 
He reach his native land, and, in their barks, 
Homeward the suitor-train retrace their way." 

He spoke, and turned to Hermes, his dear son : 
" Hermes, for thou, in this, my messenger 
Art, as in all things, to the bright-haired nymph 
Make known my steadfast purpose, the return 
Of suffering Ulysses. Neither gods 
Nor men shall guide his voyage. On a raft, 
Made firm with bands, he shall depart and reach, 



404 LATER POEMS. 

After long hardships, on the twentieth day, 

The fertile shore of Scheria, on whose isle 

Dwell the Pheacians, kinsmen of the gods. 

They like a god shall honor him, and thence 

Send him to his loved country in a ship, 

With ample gifts of brass and gold, and store 

Of raiment — wealth like which he ne'er had brought 

From conquered Ilion, had he reached his home 

Safely, with all his portion of the spoil. 

So is it preordained, that he behold 

His friends again, and stand once more within 

His high-roofed palace, on his native soil." 

He spake ; the herald Argicide obeyed, 
And hastily beneath his feet he bound 
The fair, ambrosial, golden sandals, worn 
To bear him over ocean like the wind, 
And o'er the boundless land. His wand he took, 
Wherewith he softly seals the eyes of men, 
And opens them at will from sleep. With this 
In hand, the mighty Argos-queller flew, 
And lighting on Pieria, from the sky 
Plunged downward to the deep, and skimmed its face 
Like hovering sea-mew, that on the broad gulfs 
Of the unfruitful ocean seeks her prey, 
And often dips her pinions in the brine. 
So Hermes flew along the waste of waves. 

But when he reached that island, far away, 
Forth from the dark-blue ocean-swell he stepped 
Upon the sea-beach, walking till he came 
To the vast cave in which the bright-haired nymph 
Made her abode. He found the nymph within. 
A fire blazed brightly on the hearth, and far 
Was wafted o'er the isle the fragrant smoke 
Of cloven cedar, burning in the flame, 



FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEY. 405 

And cypress-wood. Meanwhile, in her recess, 
She sweetly sang, as busily she threw 
The golden shuttle through the web she wove. 
And all about the grotto alders grew, 
And poplars, and sweet-smelling cypresses, 
In a green forest, high among whose boughs 
Birds of broad wing, wood-owls and falcons, built 
Their nests, and crows, with voices sounding far, 
All haunting for their food the ocean-side. 
A vine, with downy leaves and clustering grapes, 
Crept over all the cavern-rock. Four springs 
Poured forth their glittering waters in a row, 
And here and there went wandering side by side. 
Around were meadows of soft green, o'ergrown 
With violets and parsley. 'Twas a spot 
Where even an Immortal might, awhile, 
Linger, and gaze with wonder and delight. 
The herald Argos-queller stood, and saw, 
And marvelled : but as soon as he had viewed 
The wonders of the place, he turned -his steps, 
Entering the broad-roofed cave. Calypso there, 
The glorious goddess, saw him as he came, 
And knew him, for the ever-living gods 
Are to each other known, though one may dwell 
Far from the rest. Ulysses, large of heart, 
Was not within. Apart, upon the shore. 
He sat and sorrowed, where he oft, in tears 
And sighs and vain repinings, passed the hours, 
Gazing with wet eyes on the barren deep. 
Now, placing Hermes on a shining seat 
Of state, Calypso, glorious goddess, said : 

" Thou of the golden wand, revered and loved, 
What, Hermes, brings thee hither ? Passing few 
Have been thy visits. Make thy pleasure known, 



406 LATER POEMS. 

My heart enjoins me to obey, if aught 
That thou commandest be within my power. 
But first accept the offerings due a guest." 

The goddess, speaking thus, before him placed 
A table where the heaped ambrosia lay, 
And mingled the red nectar. Ate and drank 
The herald Argos-queller, and, refreshed, 
Answered the nymph, and made his message known 

" Art thou a goddess, and dost ask of me, 
A god, why came I hither ? Yet, since thou 
Requirest, I will truly tell the cause. 
I came unwillingly at Jove's command, 
For who, of choice, would traverse the wide waste 
Of the salt ocean, with no city near, 
Where men adore the gods with solemn rites 
And chosen hecatombs ? No god has power 
To elude or to resist the purposes 
Of aegis-bearing Jove. With thee abides, 
He bids me say, the most unhappy man 
Of all who round the city of Priam waged 
The battle through nine years, and, in the tenth, 
Laying it waste, departed for their homes. 
But in their voyage, they provoked the wrath 
Of Pallas, who called up the furious winds 
And angry waves against them. By his side 
Sank all his gallant comrades in the deep. 
Him did the winds and waves drive hither. Him 
Jove bids thee send away with speed, for here 
He must not perish, far from all he loves. 
So is it preordained that he behold 
His friends again, and stand once more within 
His high-roofed palace, on his native soil." 

He spoke ; Calypso, glorious goddess, heard, 
And shuddered, and with winged words replied : 



FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEY. 407 

" Ye are unjust, ye gods, and, envious far 
Beyond all other beings, cannot bear 
That ever goddess openly should make 
A mortal man her consort. Thus it was 
When once Aurora, rosy- fingered, took 
Orion for her husband ; ye were stung, 
Amid your blissful lives, with envious hate, 
Till chaste Diana, of the golden throne, 
Smote him with silent arrows from her bow, 
And slew him in Ortygia. Thus, again, 
When bright-haired Ceres, swayed by her own heart, 
In fields which bore three yearly harvests, met 
Iasion as a lover, this was known 
Ere long to Jupiter, who flung from high 
A flaming thunderbolt, and laid him dead. 
And now ye envy me, that with me dwells 
A mortal man. I saved him, as he clung, 
Alone, upon his floating keel, for Jove 
Had cloven, with a bolt of fire from heaven, 
His galley in the midst of the black sea, 
And all his gallant comrades perished there. 
Him kindly I received ; I cherished him, 
And promised him a life that ne'er should know 
Decay or death. But, since no god has power 
To elude or to withstand the purposes 
Of aegis-bearing Jove, let him depart. 
If so the sovereign moves him and commands, 
Over the barren deep. I send him not ; 
For neither ship arrayed with oars have I, 
Nor seamen, o'er the boundless waste of waves 
To bear him hence. My counsel I will give, 
And nothing will I hide that he should know, 
To place him safely on his native shore." 

The herald Argos-queller answered her : 



408 LATER POEMS. 

" Dismiss him thus, and bear in mind the wrath 
Of Jove, lest it be kindled against thee." 

Thus having said, the mighty Argicide 
Departed, and the nymph, who now had heard 
The doom of Jove, sought the great-hearted man, 
Ulysses. Him she found beside the deep, 
Seated alone, with eyes from which the tears 
Were never dried, for now no more the nymph 
Delighted him ; he wasted his sweet life 
In yearning for his home. Night after night 
He slept constrained within the hollow cave, 
The unwilling by the fond, and, day by day, 
He sat upon the rocks that edged the shore, 
And in continual weeping and in sighs 
And vain repinings, wore the hours away, 
Gazing through tears upon the barren deep. 
The glorious goddess stood by him and spoke : 

" Unhappy ! sit no longer sorrowing here, 
Nor waste life thus. Lo ! I most willingly 
Dismiss thee hence. Rise, hew down trees, and bind 
Their trunks, with brazen clamps, into a raft, 
And fasten planks above, a lofty floor, 
That it may bear thee o'er the dark-blue deep. 
Bread will I put on board, water and wine, 
Red wine, that cheers the heart, and wrap thee well 
In garments, and send after thee the wind, 
That safely thou attain thy native shore ; 
If so the gods permit thee, who abide 
In the broad heaven above, and better know 
By far than I, and far more wisely judge." 

Ulysses, the great sufferer, as she spoke, 
Shuddered, and thus with winged words replied : 
" Some other purpose than to send me home 
Is in thy heart, O goddess, bidding me 



FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEY. 

To cross this frightful sea upon a raft, 
This perilous sea, where never even ships 
Pass with their rapid keels, though Jove bestow 
The wind that glads the seaman. Nay, I climb 
No raft, against thy wish, unless thou swear 
The great oath of the gods, that thou, in this, 
Dost meditate no other harm to me." 

He spake ; Calypso, glorious goddess, smiled, 
And smoothed his forehead with her hand, and said ; 

" Perverse ! and slow to see where guile is not ! 
How could thy heart permit thee thus to speak ? 
Now bear me witness, Earth, and ye broad Heavens 
Above us, and ye waters of the Styx 
That flow beneath us, mightiest oath of all, 
And most revered by all the blessed gods, 
That I design no other harm to thee ; 
But that I plan for thee and counsel thee 
What I would do were I in need like thine. 
I bear a juster mind ; my bosom holds 
A pitying heart, and not a heart of steel." 

Thus having said, the glorious goddess moved 
Away with hasty steps, and where she trod 
He followed, till they reached the vaulted cave, 
The goddess and the hero. There he took 
The seat whence Hermes had just risen. The nymph 
Brought forth whatever mortals eat and drink 
To set before him. She, right opposite 
To that of great Ulysses, took her seat, 
Ambrosia there her maidens laid, and there 
Poured nectar. Both put forth their hands, and took 
The ready viands, till at length the calls 
Of hunger and of thirst were satisfied ; 
Calypso, glorious goddess, then began : 

" Son of Laertes, man of many wiles, 



409 



41 LATER POEMS. 

High-born Ulysses ! Thus wilt thou depart 

Home to thy native country ? Then farewell ; 

But, couldst thou know the sufferings Fate ordains 

For thee ere yet thou landest on its shore, 

Thou wouldst remain to keep this home with me, 

And be immortal, strong as is thy wish 

To see thy wife — a wish that, day by day, 

Possesses thee. I cannot deem myself 

In form or face less beautiful than she : 

For never with immortals can the race 

Of mortal dames in form or face compare." 

Ulysses, the sagacious, answered her : 
" Bear with me, gracious goddess ; well I know 
All thou couldst say. The sage Penelope 
In feature and in stature comes not nigh 
To thee ; for she is mortal, deathless thou 
And ever young ; yet, day by day, I long 
To be at home once more, and pine to see 
The hour of my return. Even though some god 
Smite me on the black ocean, I shall bear 
The stroke, for in my bosom dwells a mind 
Patient of suffering ; much have I endured, 
And much survived, in tempests on the deep, 
And in the battle ; let this happen too." 

He spoke ; the sun went down ; the night came on, 
And now the twain withdrew to a recess 
Deep in the vaulted cave, where, side by side, 
They took their rest. But when the child of dawn, 
Aurora, rosy-fingered, looked abroad, 
Ulysses put his vest and mantle on ; 
The nymph too, in a robe of silver white, 
Ample, and delicate, and beautiful, 
Arrayed herself, and round about her loins 
Wound a fair golden girdle, drew a veil 



FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEY. 411 

Over her head, and planned to send away- 
Magnanimous Ulysses. She bestowed 
A heavy axe, of steel, and double-edged, 
Well fitted to the hand, the handle wrought 
Of olive-wood, firm set and beautiful. 
A polished adze she gave him next, and led 
The way to a far corner of the isle, 
Where lofty trees, alders and poplars, stood, 
And firs that reach the clouds, sapless and dry 
Long since, and fitter thus to ride the waves. 
Then, having shown where grew the tallest trees, 
Calypso, glorious goddess, sought her home. 

Trees then he felled, and soon the task was done. 
Twenty in all he brought to earth, and squared 
Their trunks with the sharp steel, and carefully 
He smoothed their sides, and wrought them by a line. 
Calypso, gracious goddess, having brought 
Wimbles, he bored the beams, and, fitting them 
Together, made them fast with nails and clamps. 
As when some builder, skilful in his art, 
Frames, for a ship of burden, the broad keel, 
Such ample breadth Ulysses gave the raft. 
Upon the massy beams he reared a deck, 
And floored it with long planks from end to end. 
On this a mast he raised, and to the mast 
Fitted a yard ; he shaped a rudder next, 
To guide the raft along her course, and round 
With woven work of willow-boughs he fenced 
Her sides against the dashings of the sea. 
Calypso, gracious goddess, brought him store 
Of canvas, which he fitly shaped to sails, 
And, rigging her with cords, and ropes, and stays, 
Heaved her with levers into the great deep. 

'Twas the fourth day ; his labors now were done, 



412 LATER POEMS. 

And, on the fifth, the goddess from her isle 

Dismissed him, newly from the bath, arrayed 

In garments given by her, that shed perfumes. 

A skin of dark-red wine she put on board, 

A larger one of water, and for food 

A basket, stored with viands such as please 

The appetite. A friendly wind and soft 

She sent before. The great Ulysses spread 

His canvas joyfully, to catch the breeze, 

And sat and guided with nice care the helm, 

Gazing with fixed eye on the Pleiades, 

Bootes setting late, and the Great Bear, 

By others called the Wain, which, wheeling round, 

Looks ever toward Orion, and alone 

Dips not into the waters of the deep. 

For so Calypso, glorious goddess, bade 

That, on his ocean-journey, he should keep 

That constellation ever on his left. 

Now seventeen days were in the voyage past, 

And on the eighteenth shadowy heights appeared, 

The nearest point of the Pheacian land, 

Lying on the dark ocean like a shield. 

But mighty Neptune, coming from among 
The Ethiopians, saw him. Far away 
He saw, from mountain-heights of Solyma, 
The voyager, and burned with fiercer wrath, 
And shook his head, and said within himself: 

" Strange ! now I see the gods have new designs 
For this Ulysses, formed while I was yet 
In Ethiopia. He draws near the land 
Of the Pheacians, where it is decreed 
He shall o'erpass the boundary of his woes ; 
But first, I think, he will have much to bear." 

He spoke, and round about him called the clouds 



FIFTH BOOK OF HOMERS ODYSSEY. 413 

And roused the ocean, wielding in his hand 
The trident, summoned all the hurricanes 
Of all the winds, and covered earth and sky 
At once with mists, while from above, the night 
Fell suddenly. The east wind and the south 
Rushed forth at once, with the strong-blowing west, 
And the clear north rolled up his mighty waves. 
Ulysses trembled in his knees and heart, 
And thus to his great soul, lamenting, said : 

"What will become of me ? unhappy man ! 
I fear that all the goddess said was true, 
Foretelling what disasters should o'ertake 
My voyage, ere I reach my native land. 
Now are her words fulfilled. How Jupiter 
Wraps the great heaven in clouds and stirs the deep 
To tumult ! Wilder grow the hurricanes 
Of all the winds, and now my fate is sure. 
Thrice happy, four times happy they, who fell 
On Troy's wide field, warring for Atreus' sons : 
Oh, had I met my fate and perished there, 
That very day on which the Trojan host, 
Around the dead Achilles, hurled at me 
Their brazen javelins ! I had then received 
Due burial and great glory with the Greeks ; 
Now must I die a miserable death." 

As thus he spoke, upon him, from on high, 
A huge and frightful billow broke ; it whirled 
The raft around, and far from it he fell. 
His hands let go the rudder ; a fierce rush 
Of all the winds together snapped in twain 
The mast ; far off the yard and canvas flew 
Into the deep ; the billow held him long 
Beneath the waters, and he strove in vain 
Quickly to rise to air from that huge swell 



4 14 LATER POEMS. 

Of ocean, for the garments weighed him down 
Which fair Calypso gave him. But, at length, 
Emerging, he rejected from his throat 
The bitter brine that down his forehead streamed. 
Even then, though hopeless with dismay, his thought 
Was on the raft, and, struggling through the waves, 
He seized it, sprang on board, and seated there 
Escaped the threatened death. Still to and fro 
The rolling billows drove it. As the wind 
In autumn sweeps the thistles o'er the field, 
Clinging together, so the blasts of heaven 
Hither and thither drove it o'er the sea. 
And now the south wind flung it to the north 
To buffet ; now the east wind to the west. 

Ino Leucothea saw him clinging there, 
The delicate-footed child of Cadmus, once 
A mortal, speaking with a mortal voice ; 
Though now within the ocean-gulfs, she shares 
The honors of the gods. With pity she 
Beheld Ulysses struggling thus distressed, 
And, rising from the abyss below, in form 
A cormorant, the sea-nymph took her perch 
On the well-banded raft, and thus she said : 

" Ah, luckless man, how hast thou angered thus 
Earth-shaking Neptune that he visits thee 
With these disasters ? Yet he cannot take, 
Although he seek it earnestly, thy life. 
Now do my bidding, for thou seemest wise. 
Laying aside thy garments, let the raft 
Drift with the winds, while thou, by strength of arm, 
Makest thy way in swimming to the land 
Of the Pheacians, where thy safety lies. 
Receive this veil and bind its heavenly woof 
Beneath thy breast, and have no further fear 



FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEY. 415 

Of hardship or of danger. But, as soon 

As thou shalt touch the island, take it off, 

And turn away thy face, and fling it far 

From where thou standest, into the black deep." 

The goddess gave the veil as thus she spoke, 

And to the tossing deep went down, in form 

A cormorant ; the black wave covered her, 

But still Ulysses, mighty sufferer, 

Pondered, and thus to his great soul he said : 

" Ah me ! perhaps some god is planning here 
Some other fraud against me, bidding me 
Forsake my raft. I will not yet obey, 
For still far off I see the land in which 
'Tis said my refuge lies. This will I do, 
For this seems wisest. While the fastenings last 
That hold these timbers, I will keep my place 
And bide the tempest here. But when the waves 
Shall dash my raft in pieces, I will swim, 
For nothing better will remain to do." 

As he revolved this purpose in his mind, 
Earth-shaking Neptune sent a mighty wave, 
Horrid, and huge, and high, and where he sat 
It smote him. As a violent wind uplifts 
The dry chaff heaped upon a threshing-floor, 
And sends it scattered through the air abroad, 
So did that wave fling loose the ponderous beams. 
To one of these, Ulysses, clinging fast, 
Bestrode it, like a horseman on his steed ; 
And now he took the garments off, bestowed 
By fair Calypso, binding round his breast 
The veil, and forward plunged into the deep, 
With palms outspread, prepared to swim. Meanwhile, 
Neptune beheld him, Neptune, mighty king, 
And shook his head, and said within himself: 



416 LATER POEMS. 

" Go thus, and, laden with mischances, roam 
The waters, till thou come among the race 
Cherished by Jupiter ; but well I deem 
Thou wilt not find thy share of suffering light." 

Thus having spoke, he urged his coursers on, 
With their fair-flowing manes, until he came 
To JEgse, where his glorious palace stands. 

But Pallas, child of Jove, had other thoughts. 
She stayed the course of every wind beside, 
And bade them rest, and lulled them into sleep, 
But summoned the swift north to break the waves, 
That so Ulysses, the high-born, escaped 
From death and from the fates, might be the guest 
Of the Pheacians, men who love the sea. 

Two days and nights, among the mighty waves 
He floated, oft his heart foreboding death, 
But when the bright-haired Eos had fulfilled 
The third day's course, and all the winds were laid, 
And calm was on the watery waste, he saw 
That land was near, as, lifted on the crest 
Of a huge swell, he looked with sharpened sight ; 
And as a father's life preserved makes glad 
His children's hearts, when long time he has lain 
Sick, wrung with pain, and wasting by the power 
Of some malignant genius, till, at length, 
The gracious gods bestow a welcome cure ; 
So welcome to Ulysses was the sight 
Of woods and fields. By swimming on he thought 
To climb and tread the shore, but when he drew 
So near that one who shouted could be heard 
From land, the sound of ocean on the rocks 
Came to his ear, for there huge breakers roared 
And spouted fearfully, and all around 
Was covered with the sea-foam. Haven here 



FIFTH BOOK OF HOMER'S ODYSSEY. 417 

Was none for ships, nor sheltering - creek, but shores 
Beetling from high, and crags and walls of rock. 
Ulysses trembled both in knees and heart, 
And thus, to his great soul, lamenting, said ; 

" Now woe is me ! as soon as Jove has shown 
What I had little hoped to see, the land, 
And I through all these waves have ploughed my way, 
I find no issue from the hoary deep. 
For sharp rocks border it, and all around 
Roar the wild surges ; slippery cliffs arise 
Close to deep gulfs, and footing there is none, 
Where I might plant my steps and thus escape. 
All effort now were fruitless to resist 
The mighty billow hurrying me away 
To dash me on the pointed rocks. If yet 
I strive, by swimming further, to descry 
Some sloping shore or harbor of the isle, 
I fear the tempest, lest it hurl me back, 
Heavily groaning, to the fishy deep. 
Or huge sea-monster, from the multitude 
Which sovereign Amphitrite feeds, be sent 
Against me by some god, for well I know 
The power who shakes the shores is wroth with me." 

While he revolved these doubts within his mind, 
A huge wave hurled him toward the rugged coast. 
Then had his limbs been flayed, and all his bones 
Broken at once, had not the blue-eyed maid, 
Minerva, prompted him. Borne toward the rock, 
He clutched it instantly, with both his hands, 
And panting clung till that huge wave rolled by, 
And so escaped its fury. Back it came, 
And smote him once again, and flung him far 
Seaward. As to the claws of polypus, 
Plucked from its bed, the pebbles thickly cling, 
27 



41 8 LATER POEMS. 

So flakes of skin, from off his powerful hands, 

Were left upon the rock. The mighty surge 

O'erwhelmed him ; he had perished ere his time, 

Hapless Ulysses, but the blue-eyed maid, 

Pallas, informed his mind with forecast. Straight 

Emerging from the wave that shoreward rolled, 

He swam along the coast and eyed it well, 

In hope of sloping beach or sheltered creek. 

But when, in swimming, he had reached the mouth 

Of a soft-flowing river, here appeared 

The spot he wished for, smooth, without a rock, 

And here was shelter from the wind. He felt 

The current's flow, and thus devoutly prayed : 

" Hear me, O sovereign power, whoe'er thou art! 
To thee, the long-desired, I come. I seek 
Escape from Neptune's threatenings on the sea. 
The deathless gods respect the prayer of him 
Who looks to them for help, a fugitive, 
As I am now, when to thy stream I come, 
And to thy knees, from many a hardship past, 
O thou that here art ruler, I declare 
Myself thy suppliant ; be thou merciful." 

He spoke ; the river stayed his current, checked 
The billows, smoothed them to a calm, and gave 
The swimmer a safe landing at his mouth. 
Then dropped his knees and sinewy arms, at once 
Unstrung, for faint with struggling was his heart. 
His body was all swollen ; the brine gushed forth 
From mouth and nostrils ; all unnerved he lay, 
Breathless and speechless ; utter weariness 
O'ermastered him. But when he breathed again, 
And his flown senses had returned, he loosed 
The veil that I no gave him from his breast, 
And to the salt flood cast it. A grreat wave 



FIFTH BOOK OF HOMERS ODYSSEY. 

Bore it far clown the stream ; the goddess there 
In her own hands received it. He, meanwhile, 
Withdrawing from the brink, lay down among 
The reeds, and kissed the harvest-bearing earth, 
And thus to his great soul, lamenting, said : 

" Ah me ! what must I suffer more ! what yet 
Will happen to me? If, by the river's side, 
I pass the unfriendly watches of the night, 
The cruel cold and dews that steep the bank 
May, in this weakness, end me utterly, 
For chilly blows the river-air at dawn. 
But should I climb this hill, to sleep within 
The shadowy wood, among thick shrubs, if cold 
And weariness allow me, then I fear, 
That, while the pleasant slumbers o'er me steal, 
I may become the prey of savage beasts." 

Yet, as he longer pondered, this seemed best. 
He rose and sought the wood, and found it near 
The water, on a height, o'erlooking far 
The region round. Between two shrubs, that sprung 
Both from one spot, he entered — olive-trees, 
One wild, one fruitful. The damp-blowing wind 
Ne'er pierced their covert ; never blazing sun 
Darted his beams within, nor pelting shower 
Beat through, so closely intertwined they grew. 
Here entering, Ulysses heaped a bed 
Of leaves with his own hands ; he made it broad 
And high, for thick the leaves had fallen around. 
Two men and three, in that abundant store, 
Might bide the winter-storm, though keen the cold. 
Ulysses, the great sufferer, on his couch 
Looked and rejoiced, and placed himself within, 
And heaped the leaves high o'er him and around. 
As one who, dwelling in the distant fields, 



419 



420 LATER POEMS. 

Without a neighbor near him, hides a brand 

In the dark ashes, keeping carefully 

The seeds of fire alive, lest he, perforce, 

To light his hearth must bring them from afar ; 

So did Ulysses, in that pile of leaves, 

Bury himself, while Pallas o'er his eyes 

Poured sleep and closed his lids, that he might take, 

After his painful toils, the fitting rest. 



THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 

Alice. — One of your old-world stories, Uncle John, 
Such as you tell us by the winter fire, 
Till we all wonder it has grown so late. 

Uncle John. — The story of the witch that ground to death 
Two children in her mill, or will you have 
The tale of Goody Cutpurse ? 

Alice. — Nay now, nay ; 

Those stories are too childish, Uncle John, 
Too childish even for little Willy here, 
And I am older, two good years, than he ; 
No, let us have a tale of elves that ride, 
By night, with jingling reins, or gnomes of the mine, 
Or water-fairies, such as you know how 
To spin, till Willy's eyes forget to wink, 
And good Aunt Mary, busy as she is, 
Lays down her knitting. 

Uncle John. — Listen to me, then. 

'Twas in the olden time, long, long ago. 



THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 421 

And long before the great oak at our door 
Was yet an acorn, on a mountain's side 
Lived, with his wife, a cottager. They dwelt 
Beside a glen and near a dashing brook, 
A pleasant spot in spring, where first the wren 
Was heard to chatter, and, among the grass, 
Flowers opened earliest ; but, when winter came, 
That little brook was fringed with other flowers — 
White flowers, with crystal leaf and stem, that grew 
In clear November night. And, later still, 
That mountain-glen was filled with drifted snows 
From side to side, that one might walk across. 
While, many a fathom deep, below, the brook 
Sang to itself, and leaped and trotted on 
Unfrozen, o'er its pebbles, toward the vale. 

Alice. — A mountain-side, you said ; the Alps, perhaps, 
Or our own Alleghanies. 

Uncle John. — Not so fast, 

My young geographer, for then the Alps, 
With their broad pastures, haply were untrod 
Of herdsman's foot, and never human voice 
Had sounded in the woods that overhang 
Our Alleghany's streams. I think it was 
Upon the slopes of the great Caucasus, 
Or where the rivulets of Ararat 
Seek the Armenian vales. That mountain rose 
So high, that, on its top, the winter-snow 
Was never melted, and the cottagers 
Among the summer-blossoms, far below, 
Saw its white peaks in August from their door. 

One little maiden, in that cottage-home, 
Dwelt with her parents, light of heart and limb, 
Bright, restless, thoughtless, flitting here and there, 
Like sunshine on the uneasy ocean-waves, 



422 



LATER POEMS. 




And sometimes she forgot what she was bid, 
As Alice does. 

Alice. — Or Willy, quite as oft. 

Uncle John. — But you are older, Alice, two good years, 
And should be wiser. Eva was the name 
Of this young maiden, now twelve summers old. 

Now you must know that, in those early times, 
When autumn days grew pale, there came a troop 
Of childlike forms from that cold mountain-top ; 
With trailing garments through the air they came, 
Or walked the ground with girded loins, and threw 



THE LITTLE PEOPLE OE THE SNOW. 423 

Spangles of silvery frost upon the grass, 
And edged the brook with glistening parapets, 
And built it crystal bridges, touched the pool, 
And turned its face to glass, or, rising thence, 
They shook from their full laps the soft, light snow, 
And buried the great earth, as autumn winds 
Bury the forest-floor in heaps of leaves. 

A beautiful j-ace were they, with baby brows, 
And fair, bright locks, and voices like the sound 
Of steps on the crisp snow, in which they talked 
With man, as friend with friend. A merry sight 
It was, when, crowding round the traveller, 
They smote him with their heaviest snow-flakes, flung 
Needles of frost in handfuls at his cheeks, 
And, of the light wreaths of his smoking breath, 
Wove a white fringe for his brown beard, and laughed 
Their slender laugh to see him wink and grin 
And make grim faces as he floundered on. 

But, when the spring came on, what terror reigned 
Among these Little People of the Snow ! 
To them the sun's warm beams were shafts of fire, 
And the soft south-wind was the wind of death. 
Away they flew, all with a pretty scowl 
Upon their childish faces, to the north, 
Or scampered upward to the mountain's top, 
And there defied their enemy, the Spring ; 
Skipping and dancing on the frozen peaks, 
And moulding little snow-balls in their palms, 
And rolling them, to crush her flowers below, 
Down the steep snow-fields. 

Alice, That, too, must have been 

A merry sight to look at. 

Uncle John. — You are right, 

But I must speak of graver matters now. 



424 LATER POEMS. 

Midwinter was the time, and Eva stood, 
Within the cottage, all prepared to dare 
The outer cold, with ample furry robe 
Close-belted round her waist, and boots of fur, 
And a broad kerchief, which her mother's hand 
Had closely drawn about her ruddy cheek. 
"Now, stay not long abroad," said the good dame, 
" For sharp is the outer air, and, mark me well, 
Go not upon the snow beyond the spot 
Where the great linden bounds the neighboring field." 

The little maiden promised, and went forth, 
And climbed the rounded snow-swells firm with frost 
Beneath her feet, and slid, with balancing arms, 
Into the hollows. Once, as up a drift 
She slowly rose, before her, in the way, 
She saw a little creature, lily-cheeked, 
With flowing flaxen locks, and faint blue eyes, 
That gleamed like ice, and robe that only seemed 
Of a more shadowy whiteness than her cheek. 
On a smooth bank she sat. 

Alice. — She must have been 

One of your Little People of the Snow. 

Uncle John. — She was so, and, as Eva now drew near, 
The tiny creature bounded from her seat ; 
" And come," she said, "my pretty friend ; to-day 
We will be playmates. I have watched thee long, 
And seen how well thou lov'st to walk these drifts, 
And scoop their fair sides into little cells, 
And carve them with quaint figures, huge-limbed men. 
Lions, and griffins. We will have, to-day, 
A merry ramble over these bright fields, 
And thou shalt see what thou hast never seen." 

On went the pair, until they reached the bound 
Where the great linden stood, set deep in snow. 



THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 425 

Up to the lower branches. " Here we stop," 

Said Eva, " for my mother has my word 

That I will go no farther than this tree." 

Then the snow-maiden laughed : " And what is this ? 

This fear of the pure snow, the innocent snow, 

That never harmed aught living ? Thou mayst roam 

For leagues beyond this garden, and return 

In safety ; here the grim wolf never prowls, 

And here the eagle of our mountain-crags 

Preys not in winter. I will show the way, 

And bring thee safely home. Thy mother, sure, 

Counselled thee thus because thou hadst no guide." 

By such smooth words was Eva won to break 
Her promise, and went on with her new friend, 
Over the glistening snow and down a bank 
Where a white shelf, wrought by the eddying wind, 
Like to a billow's crest in the great sea, 
Curtained an opening. " Look, we enter here." 
And straight, beneath the fair o'erhanging fold, 
Entered the little pair that hill of snow, 
Walking along a passage with white walls, 
And a white vault above where snow-stars shed 
A wintry twilight. Eva moved in awe, 
And held her peace, but the snow-maiden smiled, 
And talked and tripped along, as down the way, 
Deeper they went into that mountainous drift. 

And now the white walls widened, and the vault 
Swelled upward, like some vast cathedral-dome, 
Such as the Florentine, who bore the name 
Of heaven's most potent angel, reared, long since, 
Or the unknown builder of that wondrous fane, 
The glory of Burgos. Here a garden lay 
In which the Little People of the Snow 
Were wont to take their pastime when their tasks 



426 LATER POEMS. 

Upon the mountain's side and in the clouds 

Were ended. Here they taught the silent frost 

To mock, in stem and spray, and leaf and flower, 

The growths of summer. Here the palm upreared 

Its white columnar trunk and spotless sheaf 

Of plume-like leaves ; here cedars, huge as those 

Of Lebanon, stretched far their level boughs, 

Yet pale and shadowless ; the sturdy oak 

Stood, with its huge gnarled roots of seeming strength, 

Fast anchored in the glistening bank ; light sprays 

Of myrtle, roses in their bud and bloom, 

Drooped by the winding walks ; yet all seemed wrought 

Of stainless alabaster; up the trees 

Ran the lithe jessamine, with stalk and leaf 

Colorless as her flowers. " Go softly on," 

Said the snow-maiden ; " touch not, with thy hand, 

The frail creation round thee, and beware 

To sweep it with thy skirts. Now look above. 

How sumptuously these bowers are lighted up 

With shifting gleams that softly come and go ! 

These are the northern lights, such as thou seest 

In the midwinter nights, cold, wandering flames, 

That float with our processions, through the air ; 

And here, within our winter palaces, 

Mimic the glorious daybreak." Then she told 

How, when the wind, in the long winter nights, 

Swept the light snows into the hollow dell, 

She and her comrades guided to its place 

Each wandering flake, and piled them quaintly up, 

In shapely colonnade and glistening arch, 

With shadowy aisles between, or bade them grow, 

Beneath their little hands, to bowery walks 

In gardens such as these, and, o'er them all, 

Built the broad roof. "But thou hast yet to see 



THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 427 

A fairer sight," she said, and led the way 
To where a window of pellucid ice 
Stood in the wall of snow, beside their path. 
" Look, but thou mayst not enter." Eva looked, 
And lo ! a glorious hall, from whose high vault 
Strips of soft light, ruddy and delicate green, 
And tender blue, flowed downward to the floor 
And far around, as if the aerial hosts, 
That march on high by night, with beamy spears, 
And streaming banners, to that place had brought 
Their radiant flags to grace a festival. 
And in that hall a joyous multitude 
Of these by whom its glistening walls were reared, 
Whirled in a merry dance to silvery sounds, 
That rang from cymbals of transparent ice, 
And ice-cups, quivering to the skilful touch 
Of little fingers. Round and round they flew, 
As when, in spring, about a chimney-top, 
A cloud of twittering swallows, just returned, 
Wheel round and round, and turn and wheel again, 
Unwinding their swift track. So rapidly 
Flowed the meandering stream of that fair dance, 
Beneath that dome of light. Bright eyes that looked 
From under lily-brows, and gauzy scarfs 
Sparkling like snow-wreaths in the early sun, 
Shot by the window in their mazy whirl. 
And there stood Eva, wondering at the sight 
Of those bright revellers and that graceful sweep 
Of motion as they passed her; — long she gazed, 
And listened long to the sweet sounds that thrilled 
The frosty air, til) now the encroaching cold 
Recalled her to herself. " Too long, too long 
I linger here," she said, and then she sprang 
Into the path, and with a hurried step 



428 



LATER POEMS. 




'■'•And in that hall a joyous multitude 
Of these by whom its glistening walls were reared. 



THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 429 

Followed it upward. Ever by her side 

Her little guide kept pace. As on they went, 

Eva bemoaned her fault : " What must they think — 

The dear ones in the cottage, while so long, 

Hour after hour, I stay without ? I know 

That they will seek me far and near, and weep 

To find me not. How could I, wickedly, 

Neglect the charge they gave me ? " As she spoke, 

The hot tears started to her eyes ; she knelt 

In the mid-path. " Father ! forgive this sin : 

Forgive myself I cannot " — thus she prayed, 

And rose and hastened onward. When, at last, 

They reached the outer air, the clear north breathed 

A bitter cold, from which she shrank with dread, 

But the snow-maiden bounded as she felt 

The cutting blast, and uttered shouts of joy, 

And skipped, with boundless glee, from drift to drift, 

And danced round Eva, as she labored up 

The mounds of snow. " Ah me ! I feel my eyes 

Grow heavy," Eva said ; " they swim with sleep ; 

I cannot walk for utter weariness, 

And I must rest a moment on this bank, 

But let it not be long." As thus "she spoke, 

In half-formed words, she sank on the smooth snow, 

With closing lids. Her guide composed the robe 

About her limbs, and said : " A pleasant spot 

Is this to slumber in ; on such a couch 

Oft have I slept away the winter night, 

And had the sweetest dreams." So Eva slept, 

But slept in death ; for when the power of frost 

Locks up the motions of the living frame, 

The victim passes to the realm of Death 

Through the dim porch of Sleep. The little guide, 

Watching beside her, saw the hues of life 



43Q LATER POEMS. 

Fade from the fair smooth brow and rounded cheek, 
As fades the crimson from a morning cloud, 
Till they were white as marble, and the breath 
Had ceased to come and go, yet knew she not 
At first that this was death. But when she marked 
How deep the paleness was, how motionless 
That once lithe form, a fear came over her. 
She strove to wake the sleeper, plucked her robe, 
And shouted in her ear, but all in vain ; 
The life had passed away from those young limbs. 
Then the snow-maiden raised a wailing cry, 
Such as the dweller in some lonely wild, 
Sleepless through all the long December night, 
Hears when the mournful East begins to blow. 
But suddenly was heard the sound of steps, 
Grating on the crisp snow ; the cottagers 
Were seeking Eva ; from afar they saw 
The twain, and hurried toward them. As they came 
With gentle chidings ready on their lips, 
And marked that deathlike sleep, and heard the tale 
Of the snow-maiden, mortal anguish fell 
Upon their hearts, and bitter words of grief 
And blame were uttered : " Cruel, cruel one, 
To tempt our daughter thus, and cruel we, 
Who suffered her to wander forth alone 
In this fierce cold ! " They lifted the dear child, 
And bore her home and chafed her tender limbs, 
And strove, by all the simple arts they knew, 
To make the chilled blood move, and win the breath 
Back to her bosom ; fruitlessly they strove ; 
The little maid was dead. In blank despair 
They stood, and gazed at her who never more 
Should look on them. " Why die we not with her ? " 
They said ; " without her, life is bitterness." 



THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 

Now came the funeral-day ; the simple folk 
Of all that pastoral region gathered round 
To share the sorrow of the cottagers. 
They carved a way into the mound of snow 
To the glen's side, and dug a little grave 
In the smooth slope, and, following the bier, 
In long procession from the silent door, 
Chanted a sad and solemn melody. 

" Lay her away to rest within the ground. 
Yea, lay her down whose pure and innocent life 
Was spotless as these snows ; for she was reared 
In love, and passed in love life's pleasant spring, 
And all that now our tenderest love can do 
Is to give burial to her lifeless limbs." 

They paused. A thousand slender voices round, 
Like echoes softly flung from rock and hill, 
Took up the strain, and all the hollow air 
Seemed mourning for the dead ; for, on that day, 
The Little People of the Snow had come, 
From mountain-peak, and cloud, and icy hall, 
To Eva's burial. As the murmur died, 
The funeral-train renewed the solemn chant : 
"Thou, Lord, hast taken her to be with Eve, 
Whose gentle name was given her. Even so, 
For so Thy wisdom saw that it was best 
For her and us. We bring our bleeding hearts, 
And ask the touch of healing from Thy hand, 
As, with submissive tears, we render back 
The lovely and beloved to Him who gave." 

They ceased. Again the plaintive murmur rose. 
From shadowy skirts of low-hung cloud it came, 
And wide white fields, and fir-trees capped with snow, 
Shivering to the sad sounds. They sank away 
To silence in the dim-seen distant woods. 



\y 



432 



LATER POEMS. 




" Around that little grave, in the long night, 
Frost-wreaths were laid and tufts of silvery rime 
In shape like blades and blossoms of the field." 



THE LITTLE PEOPLE OF THE SNOW. 



433 



The little grave was closed ; the funeral-train 
Departed ; winter wore away ; the Spring 
Steeped, with her quickening rains, the violet-tufts, 
By fond hands planted where the maiden slept. 
But, after Eva's burial, never more 
The Little People of the Snow were seen 
By human eye, nor ever human ear 
Heard from their lips articulate speech again ; 
For a decree went forth to cut them off, 
Forever, from communion with mankind. 
The winter-clouds, along the mountain-side, 
Rolled downward toward the vale, but no fair form 
Leaned from their folds, and, in the icy glens, 
And aged woods, under snow-loaded pines, 
Where once they made their haunt, was emptiness. 

But ever, when the wintry days drew near, 
Around that little grave, in the long night, 
Frost-wreaths were laid and tufts of silvery rime 
In shape like blades and blossoms of the field, 
As one would scatter flowers upon a bier. 




434 LATER POEMS. 



THE POET. 



Thou, who wouldst wear the name 

Of poet mid thy brethren of mankind, 
And clothe in words of flame 

Thoughts that shall live within the general mind ! 
Deem not the framing of a deathless lay 
The pastime of a drowsy summer day. 

But gather all thy powers, 

And wreak them on the verse that thou dost weave, 
And in thy lonely hours, 

At silent morning or at wakeful eve, 
While the warm current tingles through thy veins, 
Set forth the burning words in fluent strains. 

No smooth array of phrase, 

Artfully sought and ordered though it be, 
Which the cold rhymer lays 

Upon his page with languid industry, 
Can wake the listless pulse to livelier speed, 
Or fill with sudden tears the eyes that read. 

The secret wouldst thou know 

To touch the heart or fire the blood at will ? 
Let thine own eyes o'erflow ; 

Let thy lips quiver with the passionate thrill ; 
Seize the great thought, ere yet its power be past, 
And bind, in words, the fleet emotion fast. 



THE POET. 



435 




Then, should thy verse appear 

Halting and harsh, and all unaptly wrought, 
Touch the crude line with fear, 

Save in the moment of impassioned thought 



436 LATER POEMS. 

Then summon back the original glow, and mend 
The strain with rapture that with fire was penned. 

Yet let no empty gust 

Of passion find an utterance in thy lay, 
A blast that whirls the dust 

Along the howling street and dies away ; 
But feelings of calm power and mighty sweep, 
Like currents journeying through the windless deep. 

Seek'st thou, in living lays, 

To limn the beauty of the earth and sky ? 
Before thine inner gaze 

Let all that beauty in clear vision lie ; 
Look on it with exceeding love, and write 
The words inspired by wonder and delight. 

Of tempests wouldst thou sing, 

Or tell of battles — make thyself a part 

Of the great tumult ; cling 

To the tossed wreck with terror in thy heart ; 

Scale, with the assaulting host, the rampart's height, 

And strike and struggle in the thickest fight. 

So shalt thou frame a lay 

That haply may endure from age to age, 
And they who read shall say : 

" What witchery hangs upon this poet's page ! 
What art is his the written spells to find 
That sway from mood to mood the willing mind ! " 



THE PATH. 437 



THE PATH. 

The path we planned beneath October's sky, 

Along the hill-side, through the woodland shade, 

Is finished ; thanks to thee, whose kindly eye 
Has watched me, as I plied the busy spade ; 

Else had I wearied, ere this path of ours 

Had pierced the woodland to its inner bowers. 

Yet, 'twas a pleasant toil to trace and beat, 
Among the glowing trees, this winding way, 

While the sweet autumn sunshine, doubly sweet, 
Flushed with the ruddy foliage, round us lay, 

As if some gorgeous cloud of morning stood, 

In glory, mid the arches of the wood. 

A path ! what beauty does a path bestow 
Even on the dreariest wild ! its savage nooks 

Seem homelike where accustomed footsteps go, 
And the grim rock puts on familiar looks. 

The tangled swamp, through which a pathway strays, 

Becomes a garden with strange flowers and sprays. 

See, from the weedy earth a rivulet break 
And purl along the untrodden wilderness ; 

There the shy cuckoo comes his thirst to slake, 
There the shrill jay alights his plumes to dress ; 

And there the stealthy fox, when morn is gray, 

Laps the clear stream and lightly moves away. 

But let a path approach that fountain's brink, 
And nobler forms of life, behold ! are there : 

Boys kneeling with protruded lips to drink, 

And slender maids that homeward slowly bear 



438 LATER POEMS. 

The brimming pail, and busy dames that lay 
Their webs to whiten in the summer ray. 

Then know we that for herd and flock are poured 
Those pleasant streams that o'er the pebbles slip ; 

Those pure sweet waters sparkle on the board ; 
Those fresh cool waters wet the sick man's lip ; 

Those clear bright waters from the font are shed, 

In dews of baptism, on the infant's head. 

What different steps the rural footway trace ! 

The laborer afield at early day ; 
The schoolboy sauntering with uneven pace ; 

The Sunday worshipper in fresh array ; 
And mourner in the weeds of sorrow drest ; 
And, smiling to himself, the wedding guest. 

There he who cons a speech and he who hums 
His yet unfinished verses, musing walk. 

There, with her little brood, the matron comes, 
To break the spring flower from its juicy stalk ; 

And lovers, loitering, wonder that the moon 

Has risen upon their pleasant stroll so soon. 

Bewildered in vast woods, the traveller feels 
His heavy heart grow lighter, if he meet 

The traces of a path, and straight he kneels, 
And kisses the dear print of human feet, 

And thanks his God, and journeys without fear, 

For now he knows the abodes of men are near.. 

Pursue the slenderest path across a lawn : 
Lo ! on the broad highway it issues forth, 

And, blended with the greater track, goes on, 
Over the surface of the mighty earth, 



THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 

Climbs hills and crosses vales, and stretches far, 
Through silent forests, toward the evening star — 

And enters cities murmuring with the feet 
Of multitudes, and wanders forth again, 

And joins the climes of frost to climes of heat, 
Binds East to West, and marries main to main, 

Nor stays till at the long-resounding shore 

Of the great deep, where paths are known no more. 

O mighty instinct, that dost thus unite 

Earth's neighborhoods and tribes with friendly bands, 
What guilt is theirs who, in their greed or spite, 

Undo thy holy work with violent hands ! 
And post their squadrons, nursed in war's grim trade, 
To bar the ways for mutual succor made. 



439 



THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 

I hear, from many a little throat, 

A warble interrupted long ; 
I hear the robin's flute-like note, 

The bluebird's slenderer song. 

Brown meadows and the russet hill, 
Not yet the haunt of grazing herds, 

And thickets by the glimmering rill, 
Are all alive with birds. 

O choir of spring, why come so soon ? 

On leafless grove and herbless lawn 
Warm lie the yellow beams of noon ; 

Yet winter is not gone. 



440 LA TER POEMS. 

For frost shall sheet the pools again ; 

Again the blustering East shall blow — ■ 
Whirl a white tempest through the glen, 

And load the pines with snow. 

Yet, haply, from the region where, 

Waked by an earlier spring than here, 

The blossomed wild-plum scents the air, 
Ye come in haste and fear. 

For there is heard the bugle-blast, 
The booming gun, the jarring drum, 

And on their chargers, spurring fast. 
Armed warriors go and come. 

There mighty hosts have pitched the camp 
In valleys that were yours till then, 

And Earth has shuddered to the 'tramp 
Of half a million men ! 

In groves where once ye used to sing, 
In orchards where ye had your birth, 

A thousand glittering axes swing 
To smite the trees to earth. 

Ye love the fields by ploughmen trod ; 

But there, when sprouts the beechen spray 
The soldier only breaks the sod 

To hide the slain away. 

Stay, then, beneath our ruder sky ; 

Heed not the storm-clouds rising black, 
Nor yelling winds that with them fly ; 

Nor let them fright you back — 



THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. 441 

Back to the stifling battle-cloud, 

To burning towns that blot the day, 
And trains of mounting dust that shroud 

The armies on their way. 

Stay, for a tint of green shall creep 

Soon o'er the orchard's grassy floor, 
And from its bed the crocus peep 

Beside the housewife's door. 

Here build, and dread no harsher sound, 

To scare you from the sheltering tree, 
Than winds that stir the branches round, 

And murmur of the bee. 

And we will pray that, ere again 

The flowers of autumn bloom and die, 
Our generals and their strong-armed men 

May lay their weapons by. 

Then may ye warble, unafraid, 

Where hands, that wear the fetter now, 
Free as your wings shall ply the spade, 

And guide the peaceful plough. 

Then, as our conquering hosts return, 

What shouts of jubilee shall break 
From placid vale and mountain stern, 

And shore of mighty lake ! 

And midland plain and ocean-strand 

Shall thunder : " Glory to the brave, 
Peace to the torn and bleeding land, 

And freedom to the slave ! " 

JfarcA, 1864. 



442 LATER POEMS. 



HE HATH PUT ALL THINGS UNDER HIS. FEET. 

O North, with all thy vales of green ! 

O South, with all thy palms ! 
From peopled towns and fields between 

Uplift the voice of psalms ; 
Raise, ancient East, the anthem high, 
And let the youthful West reply. 

Lo ! in the clouds of heaven appears 

God's well-beloved Son ; 
He brings a train of brighter years : 

His kingdom is begun. 
He comes, a guilty world to bless 
With mercy, truth, and righteousness. 

O Father ! haste the promised hour 

When, at His feet, shall lie 
All rule, authority, and power, 

Beneath the ample sky ; 
When He shall reign from pole to pole, 
The lord of every human soul ! 

When all shall heed the words He said 

Amid their daily cares. 
And, by the loving life He led, 

Shall seek to pattern theirs ; 
And He, who conquered Death, shall win 
The nobler conquest over Sin. 



MY AUTUMN WALK. 



MY AUTUMN WALK. 

On woodlands ruddy with autumn 

The amber sunshine lies ; 
I look on the beauty round me, 

And tears come into my eyes. 

For the wind that sweeps the meadows 
Blows out of the far Southwest, 

Where our gallant men are fighting, 
And the gallant dead are at rest. 

The golden-rod is leaning, 

And the purple aster waves 
In a breeze from the land of battle, 

A breath from the land of graves. 

Full fast the leaves are dropping 
Before that wandering breath ; 

As fast, on the field of battle, 
Our brethren fall in death. 

Beautiful over my pathway 

The forest spoils are shed ; 
They are spotting the grassy hillocks 

With purple and gold and red. 

Beautiful is the death-sleep 

Of those who bravely fight 
In their country's holy quarrel, 

And perish for the Right. 



443 



444 LATER POEMS. 

But who shall comfort the living, 
The light of whose homes is gone : 

The bride that, early widowed, 
Lives broken-hearted on ; 

The matron whose sons are lying 
In graves on a distant shore ; 

The maiden, whose promised husband 
Comes back from war no more ? 

I look on the peaceful dwellings 
Whose windows glimmer in sight, 

With croft and garden and orchard, 
That bask in the mellow light ; 

And I know that, when our couriers 
With news of victory come, 

They will bring a bitter message 
Of hopeless grief to some. 

Again I turn to the woodlands, 

And shudder as I see 
The mock-grape's blood-red banner 

Hung out on the cedar-tree ; 

And I think of days of slaughter, 
And the night-sky red with flames, 

On the Chattahoochee's meadows, 
And the wasted banks of the James. 

Oh, for the fresh spring-season, 
When the groves are in their prime ; 

And far away in the future 
Is the frosty autumn-time ! 



DANTE. 445 



Oh, for that better season, 

When the pride of the foe shall yield, 
And the hosts of God and Freedom 

March back from the well-won field ; 

And the matron shall clasp her first-born 
With tears of joy and pride ; 

And the scarred and war-worn lover 
Shall claim his promised bride ! 

The leaves are swept from the branches ; 

But the living buds are there, 
With folded flower and foliage, 

To sprout in a kinder air. 

October, 1864. 



DANTE. 



Who, mid the grasses of the field 
That spring beneath our careless feet, 

First found the shining stems that yield 
The grains of life-sustaining wheat : 

Who first, upon the furrowed land, 

Strewed the bright grains to sprout, and grow, 
And ripen for the reaper's hand — 

We know not, and we cannot know. 

But well we know the hand that brought 
And scattered, far as sight can reach, 

The seeds of free and living thought 
On the broad field of modern speech. 



446 LATER POEMS. 

Mid the white hills that round us lie, 
We cherish that Great Sower's fame, 

And, as we pile the sheaves on high, 
With awe we utter Dante's name. 

Six centuries, since the poet's birth, 

Have come and flitted o'er our sphere 

The richest harvest reaped on earth 

Crowns the last century's closing year. 
1865. 



THE DEATH OF LINCOLN. 

Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, 
Gentle and merciful and just ! 

Who, in the fear of God, didst bear 
The sword of power, a nation's trust ! 

In sorrow by thy bier we stand, 
Amid the awe that hushes all, 

And speak the anguish of a land 
That shook with horror at thy fall. 

Thy task is done ; the bond are free : 
We bear thee to an honored grave, 

Whose proudest monument shall be 
The broken fetters of the slave. 

Pure was thy life ; its bloody close 

Hath placed thee with the sons of light, 

Among the noble host of those 
Who perished in the cause of Right. 

April, 1865. 



THE DEATH OF SLAVERY, 447 



THE DEATH OF SLAVERY. 

THOU great Wrong, that, through the slow-paced years, 
Didst hold thy millions fettered, and didst wield 
The scourge that drove the laborer to the field, 

And turn a stony gaze on human tears, 
Thy cruel reign is o'er; 
Thy bondmen crouch no more 

In terror at the menace of thine eye ; 

For He who marks the bounds of guilty power, 

Long-suffering, hath heard the captive's cry, 

And touched his shackles at the appointed hour, 

And lo ! they fall, and he whose limbs they galled 

Stands in his native manhood, disenthralled. 

A shout of joy from the redeemed is sent ; 

Ten thousand hamlets swell the hymn of thanks ; 

Our rivers roll exulting, and their banks 
Send up hosannas to the firmament ! 

Fields where the bondman's toil 
No more shall trench the soil, 
Seem now to bask in a serener day ; 

The meadow-birds sing sweeter, and the airs 
Of heaven with more caressing softness play, 

Welcoming man to liberty like theirs. 
A glory clothes the land from sea to sea, 
For the great land and all its coasts are free. 

Within that land wert thou enthroned of late, 
And they by whom the nation's laws were made, 
And they who filled its judgment-seats obeyed 

Thy mandate, rigid as the will of Fate. 



448 LATER POEMS. 

Fierce men at thy right hand, 
With gesture of command, 
Gave forth the word that none might dare gainsay ; 

And grave and reverend ones, who loved thee not, 
Shrank from thy presence, and in blank dismay 

Choked down, unuttered, the rebellious thought ; 
While meaner cowards, mingling with thy train, 
Proved, from the book of God, thy right to reign. 

Great as thou wert, and feared from shore to shore, 

The wrath of Heaven o'ertook thee in thy pride ; 

Thou sitt'st a ghastly shadow ; by thy side 
Thy once strong arms hang nerveless evermore. 
And they who quailed but now 
Before thy lowering brow, 
Devote thy memory to scorn and shame, 

And scoff at the pale, powerless thing thou art. 
And they who ruled in thine imperial name, 

Subdued, and standing sullenly apart, 
Scowl at the hands that overthrew thy reign, 
And shattered at a blow the prisoner's chain. 

Well was thy doom deserved ; thou didst not spare 
Life's tenderest ties, but cruelly didst part 
Husband and wife, and from the mother's heart 

Didst wrest her children, deaf to shriek and prayer ; 
Thy inner lair became 
The haunt of guilty shame ; 

Thy lash dropped blood ; the murderer, at thy side, 
Showed his red hands, nor feared the vengeance due. 

Thou didst sow earth with crimes, and, far and wide, 
A harvest of uncounted miseries grew, 

Until the measure of thy sins at last 

Was full, and then the avenging bolt was cast ! 



"RECEIVE THY SIGHT:' 449 

Go now, accursed of God, and take thy place 

With hateful memories of the elder time, 

With many a wasting plague, and nameless crime, 
And bloody war that thinned the human race ; 
With the Black Death, whose way 
Through wailing cities lay, 
Worship of Moloch, tyrannies that built 

The Pyramids, and cruel creeds that taught 
To avenge a fancied guilt by deeper guilt — 

Death at the stake to those that held them not. 
Lo ! the foul phantoms, silent in the gloom 
Of the flown ages, part to yield thee room. 

I see the better years that hasten by 

Carry thee back into that shadowy past, 

Where, in the dusty spaces, void and vast, 
The graves of those whom thou hast murdered lie. 
The slave-pen, through whose door 
Thy victims pass no more, 
Is there, and there shall the grim block remain 

At which the slave was sold ; while at thy feet 
Scourges and engines of restraint and pain 

Moulder and rust by thine eternal seat. 
There, mid the symbols that proclaim thy erimes, 
Dwell thou, a warning to the coming times. 

May, 1866. 



"RECEIVE THY SIGHT." 

When the blind suppliant in the way, 
By friendly hands to Jesus led, 

Prayed to behold the light of day, 

" Receive thy sight," the Saviour said. 
29 



450 LATER POEMS. 

At once he saw the pleasant rays 
That lit the glorious firmament ; 

And, with firm step and words of praise, 
He followed where the Master went. 

Look down in pity, Lord, we pray, 
On eyes oppressed by moral night, 

And touch the darkened lids and say 
The gracious words, " Receive thy sight. 

Then, in clear daylight, shall we see 
Where walked the sinless Son of God ; 

And, aided by new strength from Thee, 
Press onward in the path He trod. 



A BRIGHTER DAY. 

FROM THE SPANISH. 

Harness the impatient Years, 
O Time ! and yoke them to the imperial car ; 

For, through a mist of tears, 

The brighter day appears, 
Whose early blushes tinge the hills afar. 

A brighter day for thee, 
O realm ! whose glorious fields are spread between 

The dark-blue Midland Sea 

And that immensity 
Of Western waters which once hailed thee queen ! 



A BRIGHTER DAY. 451 

The fiery coursers fling 
Their necks aloft, and snuff the morning wind, 

Till the fleet moments bring 

The expected sign to spring 
Along their path, and leave these glooms behind. 

Yoke them, and yield the reins 
To Spain, and lead her to the lofty seat ; 

But, ere she mount, the chains 

Whose cruel strength constrains 
Her limbs must fall in fragments at her feet. 

A tyrant brood have wound 
About her helpless limbs the steely braid, 

And toward a gulf profound 

They drag her, gagged and bound, 
Down among dead men's bones, and frost and shade. 

O Spain ! thou wert of yore 
The wonder of the realms ; in prouder years 

Thy haughty forehead wore, 

What it shall wear no more, 
The diadem of both the hemispheres. 

To thee the ancient Deep 
Revealed his pleasant, undiscovered lands ; 

From mines where jewels sleep, 

Tilled plain and vine-clad steep, 
Earth's richest spoil was offered to thy hands. 

Yet thou, when land and sea 
Sent thee their tribute with each rolling wave, 

And kingdoms crouched to thee, 

Wert false to Liberty, 
And therefore art thou now a shackled slave. 



452 LATER POEMS. 

Wilt thou not, yet again, 
Put forth the sleeping strength that in thee lies, 
And snap the shameful chain, 
And force that tyrant train 
To flee before the anger in thine eyes? 

Then shall the harnessed Years 
Sweep onward with thee to that glorious height 
Which even now appears 
Bright through the mist of tears, 
The dwelling-place of Liberty and Light. 

October, 1867. 



AMONG THE TREES. 

O YE who love to overhang the springs, 

And stand by running waters, ye whose boughs 

Make beautiful the rocks o'er which they play, 

Who pile with foliage the great hills, and rear 

A paradise upon the lonely plain, 

Trees of the forest, and the open field ! 

Have ye no sense of being ? Does the air, 

The pure air, which I breathe with gladness, pass 

In gushes o'er your delicate lungs, your leaves, 

All unenjoyed ? When on your winter sleep 

The sun shines warm, have ye no dreams of spring ? 

And when the glorious spring-time comes at last, 

Have ye no joy of all your bursting buds, 

And fragrant blooms, and melody of birds 

To which your young leaves shiver ? Do ye strive 

And wrestle with the wind, yet know it not ? 

Feel ye no glory in your strength when he, 



AMONG THE TREES. 



453 




" .... Do there not run 
Strange shudderings through your fibres when the axe 
Is raised against you, and the shining blade 
Deals blow on blow ? " 



454 LATER POEMS. 

The exhausted Blusterer, flies beyond the hills, 
And leaves you stronger yet ? Or have ye not 
A sense of loss when he has stripped your leaves, 
Yet tender, and has splintered your fair boughs ? 
Does the loud bolt that smites you from the cloud 
And rends you, fall unfelt ? Do there not run 
Strange shudderings through your fibres when the axe 
Is raised against you, and the shining blade 
Deals blow on blow, until, with all their boughs, 
Your summits waver and ye fall to earth ? 
Know ye no sadness when the hurricane 
Has swept the wood and snapped its sturdy stems 
Asunder, or has wrenched, from out the soil, 
The mightiest with their circles of strong roots, 
And piled the ruin all along his path ? 

Nay, doubt we not that under the rough rind, 
In the green veins of these fair growths of earth, 
There dwells a nature that receives delight 
From all the gentle processes of life, 
And shrinks from loss of being. Dim and faint 
May be the sense of pleasure and of pain, 
As in our dreams ; but, haply, real still. 

Our sorrows touch you not. We watch beside 
The beds of those who languish or who die, 
And minister in sadness, while our hearts 
Offer perpetual prayer for life and ease 
And health to the beloved sufferers. 
But ye, while anxious fear and fainting hope 
Are in our chambers, ye rejoice without. 
The funeral goes forth ; a silent train 
Moves slowly from the desolate home ; our hearts 
Are breaking as we lay away the loved, 



AMONG THE TREES. 455 

Whom we shall see no more, in their last rest, 

Their little cells within the burial-place. 

Ye have no part in this distress ; for still 

The February sunshine steeps your boughs 

And tints the buds and swells the leaves within ; 

While the song-sparrow, warbling from her perch, 

Tells you that spring is near. The wind of May 

Is sweet with breath of orchards, in whose boughs 

The bees and every insect of the air 

Make a perpetual murmur of delight, 

And by whose flowers the humming-bird hangs poised 

In air, and draws their sweets and darts away. 

The linden, in the fervors of July, 

Hums with a louder concert. When the wind 

Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime, 

As when some master-hand exulting sweeps 

The keys of some great organ, ye give forth 

The music of the woodland depths, a hymn 

Of gladness and of thanks. The hermit-thrush 

Pipes his sweet note to make your arches ring. 

The faithful robin, from the wayside elm, 

Carols all day to cheer his sitting mate, 

And when the autumn comes, the kings of earth, 

In all their majesty, are not arrayed 

As ye are, clothing the broad mountain-side 

And spotting the smooth vales with red and gold ; 

While, swaying to the sudden breeze, ye fling 

Your nuts to earth, and the brisk squirrel comes 

To gather them, and barks with childish glee, 

And scampers with them to his hollow oak. 

Thus, as the seasons pass, ye keep alive 
The cheerfulness of Nature, till in time 
The constant misery which wrings the heart 



45^ LATER POEMS. 

Relents, and we rejoice with you again, 
And glory in your beauty ; till once more 
We look with pleasure on your varnished leaves, 
That gayly glance in sunshine, and can hear, 
Delighted, the soft answer which your boughs 
Utter in whispers to the babbling brook. , 

Ye have no history. I cannot know 
Who, when the hill-side trees were hewn away, 
Haply two centuries since, bade spare this oak, 
Leaning to shade, with irregular arms, 
Low-bent and long, the fount that from his roots 
Slips through a bed of cresses toward the bay. 
I know not who, but thank him that he )eft 
The tree to flourish where the acorn fell, 
And join these later days to that far time 
While yet the Indian hunter drew the bow 
In the dim woods, and the white woodman first 
Opened these fields to sunshine, turned the soil, 
And strewed the wheat. An unremembered Past 
Broods, like a presence, 'mid the long gray boughs 
Of this old tree, which has outlived so long 
The flitting generations of mankind. 

Ye have no history. I ask in vain 
Who planted on the slope this lofty group 
Of ancient pear-trees that with spring-time burst 
Into such breadth of bloom. One bears a scar 
Where the quick lightning scored its trunk, yet still 
It feels the breath of Spring, and every May 
Is white with blossoms. Who it was that laid 
Their infant roots in earth, and tenderly 
Cherished the delicate sprays, I ask in vain, 
Yet bless the unknown hand to which I owe 



AMONG THE TREES. 457 

This annual festival of bees, these songs 
Of birds within their leafy screen, these shouts 
Of joy from children gathering up the fruit 
Shaken in August from the willing boughs. 

Ye that my hands have planted, or have spared, 
Beside the way, or in the orchard-ground, 
Or in the open meadow, ye whose boughs 
With every summer spread a wider shade, 
Whose herd in coming years shall lie at rest 
Beneath your noontide shelter ? who shall pluck 
Your ripened fruit ? who grave, as was the wont 
Of simple pastoral ages, on the rind 
Of my smooth beeches some beloved name ? 
Idly I ask ; yet may the eyes that look 
Upon you, in your later, nobler growth, 
Look also on a nobler age than ours ; 
An age when, in the eternal strife between 
Evil and Good, the Power of Good shall win 
A grander mastery ; when kings no more 
Shall summon millions from the plough to learn 
The trade of slaughter, and of populous realms 
Make camps of war ; when in our younger land 
The hand of ruffian Violence, that now 
Is insolently raised to smite, shall fall 
Unnerved before the calm rebuke of Law, 
And Fraud, his sly confederate, shrink, in shame, 
Back to his covert, and forego his prey. 



458 LATER POEMS. 



MAY EVENING. 

The breath of Spring-time at this twilight hour 
Comes through the gathering glooms, 

And bears the stolen sweets of many a flower 
Into my silent rooms. 

Where hast thou wandered, gentle gale, to find 

The perfumes thou dost bring ? 
By brooks, that through the wakening meadows wind, 

Or brink of rushy spring ? 

Or woodside, where, in little companies, 

The early wild-flowers rise, 
Or sheltered lawn, where, 'mid encircling trees, 

May's warmest sunshine lies ? 

Now sleeps the humming-bird, that, in the sun, 

Wandered from bloom to bloom ; 
Now, too, the weary bee, his day's work done, 

Rests in his waxen room. 

Now every hovering insect to his place 

Beneath the leaves hath flown ; 
And, through the long-night hours, the flowery race 

Are left to thee alone. 

O'er the pale blossoms of the sassafras 

And o'er the spice-bush spray, 
Among the opening buds, thy breathings pass, 

And come embalmed away. 



MAY EVENING. 459 

Yet there is sadness in thy soft caress, 

Wind of the blooming year ! 
The gentle presence, that was wont to bless 

Thy coming, is not here. 

Go, then ; and yet I bid thee not repair, 

Thy gathered sweets to shed, 
Where pine and willow, in the evening air, 

Sigh o'er the buried dead. 

Pass on to homes where cheerful voices sound, 

And cheerful looks are cast, 
And where thou wakest, in thine airy round, 

No sorrow of the past. 

Refresh the languid student pausing o'er 

The learned page apart, 
And he shall turn to con his task once more 

With an encouraged heart. 

Bear thou a promise, from the fragrant sward, 

To him who tills the land, 
Of springing harvests that shall yet reward 

The labors of his hand. 

And whisper, everywhere, that Earth renews 

Her beautiful array, 
Amid the darkness and the gathering dews, 

For the return of day. 



460 LATER POEMS. 



OCTOBER, 1866. 

'Twas when the earth in summer glory lay, 
We bore thee to thy grave ; a sudden cloud 

Had shed its shower and passed, and every spray 
And tender herb with pearly moisture bowed. 

How laughed the fields, and how, before our door, 
Danced the bright waters ! — from his perch on high 

The hang-bird sang his ditty o'er and o'er, 

And the song-sparrow from the shrubberies nigh. 

Yet was the home where thou wert lying dead 
Mournfully still, save when, at times, was heard, 

From room to room, some softly-moving tread, 
Or murmur of some softly-uttered word. 

Feared they to break thy slumber ? As we threw 
A look on that bright bay and glorious shore, 

Our hearts were wrung with anguish, for we knew 
Those sleeping eyes would look on them no more. 

Autumn is here ; we cull his lingering flowers 
And bring them to the spot where thou art laid ; 

The late-born offspring of his balmier hours, 
Spared by the frost, upon thy grave to fade. 

The sweet calm sunshine of October, now 
Warms the low spot ; upon its grassy mould 

The purple oak-leaf falls ; the birchen bough 
Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold. 



OCTOBER, 1866. 461 

And gorgeous as the morn, a tall array 

Of woodland shelters the smooth fields around ; 

And guarded by its headlands, far away 
Sail-spotted, blue and lake-like, sleeps the sound. 

I gaze in sadness ; it delights me not 

To look on beauty which thou canst not see ; 

And, wert thou by my side, the dreariest spot 
Were, oh, how far more beautiful to me ! 

In what fair region dost thou now abide ? 

Hath God, in the transparent deeps of space, 
Through which the planets in their journey glide, 

Prepared, for souls like thine, a dwelling-place ? 

Fields of unwithering bloom, to mortal eye 

Invisible, though mortal eye were near, 
Musical groves, and bright streams murmuring by, 

Heard only by the spiritual ear ? 

Nay, let us deem that thou dost not withdraw 

From the dear places where thy lot was cast, 
And where thy heart, in love's most holy law, 

Was schooled by all the memories of the past. 

Here on this earth, where once, among mankind, 
Walked God's beloved Son, thine eyes may see 

Beauty to which our dimmer sense is blind 
And glory that may make it heaven to thee. 

May we not think that near us thou dost stand 

With loving ministrations, for we know 
Thy heart was never happy when thy hand 

Was forced its tasks of mercy to forego ! 



462 LATER POEMS. 

Mayst thou not prompt, with every coming day, 
The generous aim and act, and gently win 

Our restless, wandering thoughts to turn away 
From every treacherous path that ends in sin ! 



THE ORDER OF NATURE. 



FROM BOETHIUS DE CONSOLATIONE. 



Thou who wouldst read, with an undarkened eye, 
The laws by which the Thunderer bears sway, 

Look at the stars that keep, in yonder sky, 
Unbroken peace from Nature's earliest day. 

The great sun, as he guides his fiery car, 
Strikes not the cold moon in his rapid sweep, 

The Bear, that sees star setting after star 
In the blue brine, descends not to the deep. 

The star of eve still leads the hour of dews ; 

Duly the day-star ushers in the light ; 
With kindly alternations Love renews 

The eternal courses bringing day and night. 

Love drives away the brawler War, and keeps 
The realm and host of stars beyond his reach ; 

In one long calm the general concord steeps 
The elements, and tempers each to each. 



THE ORDER OF NATURE. 463 

The moist gives place benignly to the dry ; 

Heat ratifies a faithful league with cold ; 
The nimble flame springs upward to the sky ; 

Down sinks by its own weight the sluggish mould. 

Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime ; 

Her harvests still the ripening Summer yields ; 
Fruit-laden Autumn follows in his time, 

And rainy Winter waters still the fields. 

The elemental harmony brings forth 

And rears all life, and, when life's term is o'er, 

It sweeps the breathing myriads from the earth, 
And whelms and hides them to be seen no more : 

While the great Founder, he who gave these laws, 

Holds the firm reins and sits amid his skies 
Monarch and Master, Origin and Cause, 

And Arbiter supremely just and wise. 

He guides the force he gave ; his hand restrains 

And curbs it to the circle it must trace : 
Else the fair fabric which his power sustains 

Would fall to fragments in the void of space. 

Love binds the parts together, gladly still 

They court the kind restraint nor would be free ; 

Unless Love held them subject to the Will 
That gave them being, they would cease to be. 



464 LATER POEMS. 



TREE-BURIAL. 

Near our southwestern border, when a child 

Dies in the cabin of an Indian wife, 

She makes its funeral-couch of delicate furs, 

Blankets and bark, and binds it to the bough 

Of some broad branching tree with leathern thongs 

And sinews of the deer. A mother once 

Wrought at this tender task, and murmured thus : 

" Child of my love, I do not lay thee down 
Among the chilly clods where never comes 
The pleasant sunshine. There the greedy wolf 
Might break into thy grave and tear thee thence, 
And I should sorrow all my life. I make 
Thy burial-place here, where the light of day 
Shines round thee, and the airs that play among 
The boughs shall rock thee. Here the morning sun, 
Which woke thee once from sleep to smile on me, 
Shall beam upon thy bed and sweetly here 
Shall lie the red light of the evening clouds 
Which called thee once to slumber. Here the stars 
Shall look upon thee — the bright stars of heaven 
Which thou didst wonder at. Here too the birds, 
Whose music thou didst love, shall sing to thee, 
And near thee build their nests and rear their young 
With none to scare them. Here the woodland flowers 
Whose opening in the spring-time thou didst greet 
With shouts of joy, and which so well became 
Thy pretty hands when thou didst gather them, 
Shall spot the ground below thy little bed. 

" Yet haply thou hast fairer flowers than these, 
Which, in the land of souls, thy spirit plucks 



TREE-BURIAL. 465 

In fields that wither not, amid the throng 
Of joyous children, like thyself, who went 
Before thee to that brighter world and sport 
Eternally beneath its cloudless skies. 
Sport with them, dear, dear child, until I come 
To dwell with thee, and thou, beholding me, 
From far, shalt run and leap into my arms, 
And I shall clasp thee as I clasped thee here 
While living, oh most beautiful and sweet, 
Of children, now more passing beautiful, 
If that can be, with eyes like summer stars — 
A light that death can never quench again. 

" And now, oh wind, that here among the leaves 
Dost softly rustle, breathe thou ever thus 
Gently, and put not forth thy strength to tear 
The branches and let fall their precious load, 
A prey to foxes. Thou, too, ancient sun, 
Beneath whose eye the seasons come and go, 
And generations rise and pass away, 
While thou dost never change — oh, call not up 
With thy strong heats, the dark, grim thunder-cloud, 
To smite this tree with bolts of fire, and rend 
Its trunk and strew the earth with splintered boughs. 
Ye rains, fall softly on the couch that holds 
My darling. There the panther's spotted hide 
Shall turn aside the shower ; and be it long, 
Long after thou and I have met again, 
Ere summer wind or winter rain shall waste 
This couch and all that now remains of thee, 
To me thy mother. Meantime, while I live, 
With each returning sunrise I shall seem 
To see thy waking smile, and I shall weep ; 
And when the sun is setting I shall think 
How, as I watched thee, o'er thy sleepy eyes 
30 



466 LATER POEMS. 

Drooped the smooth lids, and laid on the round cheek 

Their lashes, and my tears will flow again ; 

And often, at those moments, I shall seem 

To hear again the sweetly prattled name 

Which thou didst call me by, and it will haunt 

My home till I depart to be with thee." 



A LEGEND OF THE DELAWARES. 



The air is dark with cloud on cloud, 
And, through the leaden-colored mass, 

With thunder-crashes quick and loud, 
A thousand shafts of lightning pass. 

And to and fro they glance and go, 

Or, darting downward smite the ground. 

What phantom arms are those that throw 
The shower of fiery arrows round ? 

A louder crash ! a mighty oak 
Is smitten from that stormy sky. 

Its stem is shattered by the stroke ; 
Around its root the branches lie. 

Fresh breathes the wind ; the storm is o'er 
The piles of mist are swept away ; 

And from the open sky, once more, 
Streams gloriously the golden day. 



Q 



A LEGEND OF THE DELA WARES. 467 

A dusky hunter of the wild 

Is passing near, and stops to see 
The wreck of splintered branches piled 

About the roots of that huge tree. 

Lo, quaintly shaped and fairly strung, 

Wrought by what hand he cannot know, 
On that drenched pile of boughs, among 

The splinters, lies a polished bow. 

He lifts it up ; the drops that hang 

On the smooth surface slide away : 
He tries the string, no sharper twang 

Was ever heard on battle-day. 

Homeward Onetho bears the prize : 

Who meets him as he turns to go ? 
An aged chief, with quick, keen eyes, 

And bending frame, and locks of snow. 

" See, what I bring, my father, see 

This goodly bow which I have found 
Beneath a thunder-riven tree, 

Dropped with the lightning to the ground." 

" Beware, my son ; it is not well " — 

The white-haired chieftain makes reply — 
" That we who in the forest dwell 

Should wield the weapons of the sky. 

" Lay back that weapon in its place ; 

Let those who bore it bear it still, 
Lest thou displease the ghostly race 

That float in mist from hill to hill." 



468 LATER POEMS. 

'"■ My father, I will only try 

How well it sends a shaft, and then, 

Be sure, this goodly bow shall lie 

Among the splintered boughs again." 

So to the hunting-ground he hies, 
To chase till eve the forest-game, 

And not a single arrow flies, 
From that good bow, with erring aim. 

And then he deems that they, who swim 
In trains of cloud the middle air, 

Perchance had kindly thoughts of him 
And dropped the bow for him to bear. 

He bears it from that day, and soon 
Becomes the mark of every eye, 

And wins renown with every moon 
That fills its circle in the sky. 

None strike so surely in the chase ; 

None bring such trophies from the fight 
And, at the council-fire, his place 

Is with the wise and men of might. 

And far across the land is spread, 
Among the hunter tribes, his fame ; 

Men name the bowyer-chief with dread 
Whose arrows never miss their aim. 

See next his broad-roofed cabin rise 
On a smooth river's pleasant side, 

And she who has the brightest eyes 
Of all the tribe becomes his bride. 



A LEGEND OF THE DELAWARES. 469 

A year has passed : the forest sleeps 

In early autumn's sultry glow ; 
Onetho, on the mountain-steeps, 

Is hunting with that trusty bow. 

But they, who by the river dwell, 

See the dim vapors thickening o'er 
Long mountain-range and severing dell, 

And hear the thunder's sullen roar. 

Still darker grows the spreading cloud 
From which the booming thunders sound, 

And stoops and hangs a shadowy shroud 
Above Onetho's hunting-ground. 

Then they who, from the river-vale, 

Are gazing on the distant storm, 
See in the mists that ride the gale, 

Dim shadows of the human form — 

Tall warriors, plumed, with streaming hair 

And lifted arms that bear the bow, 
And send athwart the murky air 

The arrowy lightnings to and fro. 

Loud is the tumult ot an hour — 

Crash of torn boughs and howl of blast, 
And thunder-peal and pelting shower, 

And then the storm is overpast. 

Where is Onetho ? what delays 

His coming? why should he remain 
Among the plashy woodland ways, 

Swoln brooks and boughs that drip with rain ? 



470 LATER POEMS. 

He comes not, and the younger men 
Go forth to search the forest round. 

They track him to a mountain-glen, 
And find him lifeless on the ground. 

The goodly bow that was his pride 
Is gone, but there the arrows lie ; 

And now they know the death he died, 
Slain by the lightnings of the sky. 

They bear him thence in awe and fear 
Back to the vale with stealthy tread ; 

There silently, from far and near, 
The warriors gather round the dead. 

But in their homes the women bide , 
Unseen they sit and weep apart, 

And, in her bower, Onetho's bride 
Is sobbing with a broken heart. 

They lay in earth their bowyer-chief, 
And at his side their hands bestow 

His dreaded battle-axe and sheaf 
Of arrows, but without a bow. 

" Too soon he died ; it is not well " — 
The old men murmured, standing nigh, 

" That we, who in the forest dwell, 
Should wield the weapons ol the sky." 



A LIFETIME. 471 



A LIFETIME. 

I SIT in the early twilight, 

And, through the gathering shade, 
I look on the fields around me 

Where yet a child I played. 

And I peer into the shadows, 

Till they seem to pass away, 
And the fields and their tiny brooklet 

Lie clear in the light of day. 

A delicate child and slender, 
With locks of light-brown hair, 

From knoll to knoll is leaping 
In the breezy summer air. 

He stoops to gather blossoms 
Where the running waters shine ; 

And I look on him with wonder, 
His eyes are so like mine. 

I look till the fields and brooklet 

Swim like a vision by, 
And a room in a lowly dwelling 

Lies clear before my eye. 

There stand, in the clean-swept fireplace, 
Fresh boughs from the wood in bloom, 

And the birch-tree's fragrant branches 
Perfume the humble room. 



472 LATER POEMS. 

And there the child is standing 
By a stately lady's knee, 

And reading of ancient peoples 
And realms beyond the sea, 

Of the cruel King of Egypt 

Who made God's people slaves, 

And perished, with all his army, 
Drowned in the Red Sea waves ; 

Of Deborah who mustered 
Her brethren long oppressed, 

And routed the heathen army, 
And gave her people rest ; 

And the sadder, gentler story 
How Christ, the crucified, 

With a prayer for those who slew him, 
Forgave them as he died. 

I look again, and there rises 
A forest wide and wild, 

And in it the boy is wandering, 
No longer a little child. 

He murmurs his own rude verses 
As he roams the woods alone ; 

And again I gaze with wonder, 
His eyes are so like my own. 

I see him next in his chamber, 
Where he sits him down to write 

The rhymes he framed in his ramble, 
And he cons them with delight. 



A LIFETIME. 47; 

A kindly figure enters, 

A man of middle age, 
And points to a line just written, 

And 'tis blotted from the page. 

And next, in a hall of justice, 

Scarce grown to manly years, 
Mid the hoary-headed wranglers 

The slender youth appears. 

With a beating heart he rises, 

And with a burning cheek, 
And the judges kindly listen 

To hear the young man speak. 

Another change, and I see him 

Approach his dwelling-place 
Where a fair-haired woman meets him, 

With a smile on her young face — 

A smile that spreads a sunshine 

On lip and cheek and brow ; 
So sweet a smile there is not 

In all the wide earth now. 

She leads by the hand their first-born, 

A fair-haired little one, 
And their eyes as they meet him sparkle 

Like brooks in the morning sun. 

Another change, and I see him 

Where the city's ceaseless coil 
Sends up a mighty murmur 

From a thousand modes of toil. 



474 LATER POEMS. 

And there, 'mid the clash of presses, 

He plies the rapid pen 
In the battles of opinion, 

That divide the sons of men. 

I look and the clashing presses 
And the town are seen no more, 

But there is the poet wandering 
A strange and foreign shore. 

He has crossed the mighty ocean 

To realms that lie afar, 
In the region of ancient story, 

Beneath the morning star. 

And now he stands in wonder 
On an icy Alpine height ; 

Now pitches his tent in the desert 
Where the jackal yells at night ; 

Now, far on the North Sea islands, 
Sees day on the midnight sky, 

Now gathers the fair strange fruitage 
Where the isles of the Southland lie. 

I see him again at his dwelling, 
Where, over the little lake, 

The rose-trees droop in their beauty 
To meet the image they make. 

Though years have whitened his temples, 
His eyes have the first look still, 

Save a shade of settled sadness, 
A forecast of coming- ill. 



A LIFETIME. 475 

For in that pleasant dwelling, 

On the rack of ceaseless pain, 
Lies she who smiled so sweetly, 

And prays for ease in vain. 

And I know that his heart is breaking, 

When, over those dear eyes, 
The darkness slowly gathers, 

And the loved and loving dies. 

A grave is scooped on the hill-side 

Where often, at eve or morn, 
He lays the blooms of the garden — 

He, and his youngest born. 

And well I know that a brightness 

From his life has passed away, 
And a smile from the green earth's beauty, 

And a glory from the day. 

But I behold, above him, 

In the far blue deeps of air, 
Dim battlements shining faintly, 

And a throng of faces there ; 

See over crystal barrier 

The airy figures bend, 
Like those who are watching and waiting 

The coming of a friend. 

And one there is among them, 

With a star upon her brow, 
In her life a lovely woman, 

A sinless seraph now. ~\ 



476 LATER POEMS. 

I know the sweet calm features ; 

The peerless smile I know, 
And I stretch my arms with transport 

From where I stand below. 

And the quick tears drown my eyelids, 
But the airy figures fade, 

And the shining battlements darken 
And blend with the evening shade. 

I am gazing into the twilight 
Where the dim-seen meadows lie, 

And the wind of night is swaying 
The trees with a heavy sigh. , 



THE TWO TRAVELLERS. 

Twas evening, and before my eyes 
There lay a landscape gray and dim — 

Fields faintly seen and twilight skies, 
And clouds that hid the horizon's brim. 

I saw — or was it that I dreamed ? 

A waking dream ? — I cannot say, 
For every shape as real seemed 

As those which meet my eyes to-day. 

Through leafless shrubs the cold wind hissed 
The air was thick with falling snow, 

And onward, through the frozen mist, 
I saw a weary traveller go. 



THE TWO TRAVELLERS. 477 

Driven o'er the landscape, bare and bleak, 

Before the whirling gusts of air, 
The snow-flakes, smote his withered cheek, 

And gathered on his silver hair. 

Yet on he fared through blinding snows, 

And murmuring to himself he said : 
" The night is near; the darkness grows, 

And higher rise the drifts I tread. 

" Deep, deep, each autumn flower they hide ; 

Each tuft of green they whelm from sight ; 
And they who journeyed by my side, 

Are lost in the surrounding night. 

" I loved them ; oh, no words can tell 

The love that to my friends I bore ; 
They left me with the sad farewell 

Of those who part to meet no more. 

" And I, who face this bitter wind 

And o'er these snowy hillocks creep, 
Must end my journey soon, and find 

A frosty couch, a frozen sleep." 

As thus he spoke, a thrill of pain 

Shot to my heart — I closed my eyes ; 
But when I opened them again, 

I started with a glad surprise. 

'Twas evening still, and in the west 

A flush of glowing crimson lay; 
I saw the morrow there, and blest 

That promise of a glorious day. 



478 LATER POEMS. 

The waters, in their glassy sleep, 

Shone with the hues that tinged the sky, 

And rugged cliff and barren steep 

Gleamed with the brightness from on high. 

And one was there whose journey lay 
Into the slowly-gathering night ; 

With steady step he held his way, 

O'er shadowy vale and gleaming height. 

I marked his firm though weary tread, 
The lifted eye and brow serene ; 

And saw no shade of doubt or dread 
Pass o'er that traveller's placid mien. 

And others came, their journey o'er, 

And bade good-night, with words of cheer 

" To-morrow we shall meet once more ; 
'Tis but the night that parts us here." 

" And I," he said, " shall sleep ere long ; 

These fading gleams will soon be gone ; 
Shall sleep to rise refreshed and strong 

In the bright day that yet will dawn." 

I heard ; I watched him as he went, 
A lessening form, until the light 

Of evening from the firmament 
Had passed, and he was lost to sight. 



CHRISTMAS IN 1875. 479 



CHRISTMAS IN 1875. 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A SPANIARD. 

No trumpet-blast profaned 
The hour in which the Prince of Peace was born ; 

No bloody streamlet stained 
Earth's silver rivers on that sacred morn ; 

But, o'er the peaceful plain, 
The war-horse drew the peasant's loaded wain. 

The soldier had laid by 
The sword and stripped the corselet from his breast, 

And hung his helm on high — 
The sparrow's winter home and summer nest ; 

And, with the same strong hand 
That flung the barbed spear, he tilled the land. 

Oh, time for which we yearn ; 
Oh, sabbath of the nations long foretold ! 

Season of peace, return, 
Like a late summer when the year grows old, 

When the sweet sunny days 
Steep mead and mountain-side in golden haze. 

For now two rival kings 
Flaunt, o'er our bleeding land, their hostile flags, 

And every sunrise brings 
The hovering vulture from his mountain-crags 

To where the battle-plain 
Is strewn with dead, the youth and flower of Spain. 



4S0 LATER POEMS. 

Christ is not come, while yet 
O'er half the earth the threat of battle lowers, 

And our own fields are wet, 
Beneath the battle-cloud, with crimson showers— 

The life-blood of the slain, 
Poured out where thousands die that one may reign. 

Soon, over half the earth, 
In every temple crowds shall kneel again 

To celebrate His birth 
Who brought the message of good-will to men, 

And bursts of joyous song 
Shall shake the roof above the prostrate throng. 

Christ is not come while there 
The men of blood whose crimes affront the skies 

Kneel down in act of prayer, 
Amid the joyous strains, and when they rise 

Go forth, with sword and flame, 
To waste the land in His most holy name. 

Oh, when the day shall break 
O'er realms unlearned in warfare's cruel arts, 

And all their millions wake 
To peaceful tasks performed with loving hearts, 

On such a blessed morn, 
Well may the nations say that Christ is born. 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 481 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 

A mighty Hand, from an exhaustless Urn, 
Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years, 
Among the nations. How the rushing waves 
Bear all before them ! On their foremost edge, 
And there alone, is Life. The Present there 
Tosses and foams, and fills the air with roar 
Of mingled noises. There are they who toil, 
And they who strive, and they who feast, and they 
Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy swain — 
Woodman and delver with the spade — is there, 
And busy artisan beside his bench, 
And pallid student with his written roll. 
A moment on the mounting billow seen, 
The flood sweeps over them and they are gone. 
There groups of revellers whose brows are twined 
With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile, 
And as they raise their flowing cups and touch 
The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath 
The waves and disappear. I hear the jar 
Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth 
From cannon, where the advancing billow sends 
Up to the sight long files of armed men, 
That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke. 
The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid 
Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam. 
Down go the steed and rider, the plumed chief 
Sinks with his followers ; the head that wears 
The imperial diadem goes down beside 
The felon's with cropped ear and branded cheek. 
A funeral-train — the torrent sweeps away 
3i 



482 LATER POEMS. 

Bearers and bier and mourners. By the bed 
Of one who dies men gather sorrowing, 
And women weep aloud ; the flood rolls on ; 
The wail is stifled and the sobbing group 
Borne under. Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, 
The cry of an applauding multitude, 
Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields 
The living mass as if he were its soul ! 
The waters choke the shout and all is still. 
Lo ! next a kneeling crowd, and one who spreads 
The hands in prayer, the engulfing wave o'ertakes 
And swallows them and him. A sculptor wields 
The chisel, and the stricken marble grows 
■ To beauty ; at his easel, eager-eyed, 

A painter stands, and sunshine at his touch 

Gathers upon his canvas, and life glows ; 

A poet, as he paces to and fro, 

Murmurs his sounding lines. Awhile they ride 

The advancing billow, till its tossing crest 

Strikes them and flings them under, while their tasks 

Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile 

On her young babe that smiles to her again ; 

The torrent wrests it from her arms ; she shrieks 

And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down. 

A beam like that of moonlight turns the spray 

To glistening pearls ; two lovers, hand in hand, 

Rise on the billowy swell and fondly look 

Into each other's eyes. The rushing flood 

Flings them apart : the youth goes down ; the maid 

With hands outstretched in vain, and streaming eyes, 

Waits for the next high wave to follow him. 

An aged man succeeds ; his bending form 

Sinks slowly. Mingling with the sullen stream 

Gleam the white locks, and then are seen no more. 



THE FLOOD OF YEARS. 483 

Lo ! wider grows the stream — a sea-like flood 
Saps earth's walled cities ; massive palaces 
Crumble before it ; fortresses and towers 
Dissolve in the swift waters ; populous realms 
Swept by the torrent see their ancient tribes 
Engulfed and lost ; their very languages 
Stifled, and never to be uttered more. 

I pause and turn my eyes, and looking back ' 
Where that tumultuous flood has been, I see 
The silent ocean of the Past, a waste 
Of waters weltering over graves, its shores 
Strewn with the wreck of fleets where mast and hull 
Drop away piecemeal ; battlemented walls 
Frown idly, green with moss, and temples stand 
Unroofed, forsaken by the worshipper. 
There lie memorial stones, whence time has gnawed 
The graven legends, thrones of kings o'erturned, 
The broken altars of forgotten gods, 
Foundations of old cities and long streets 
Where never fall of human foot is heard, 
On all the desolate pavement. I behold 
Dim glimmerings of lost jewels, far within 
The sleeping waters, diamond, sardonyx, 
Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite, 
Once glittering at the banquet on fair brows 
That long ago were dust, and all around 
Strewn on the surface of that silent sea 
Are withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locks 
Shorn from dear brows, by loving hands, and scrolls 
O'er written, haply with fond words of love 
And vows of friendship, and fair pages flung 
Fresh from the printer's engine. There they lie 
A moment, and then sink away from sight. 

I look, and the quick tears are in my eyes, 



484 LATER POEMS. 

For I behold in every one of these 

A blighted hope, a separate history 

Of human sorrows, telling of dear ties 

Suddenly broken, dreams of happiness 

Dissolved in air, and happy days too brief 

That sorrowfully ended, and I think 

How painfully must the poor heart have beat 

In bosoms without number, as the blow 

Was struck that slew their hope and broke their peace. 

Sadly I turn and look before, where yet 
The Flood must pass, and I behold a mist 
Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope, 
Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers, 
Or wander among rainbows, fading soon 
And reappearing, haply giving place 
To forms of grisly aspect such as Fear 
Shapes from the idle air — where serpents lift 
The head to strike, and skeletons stretch forth 
The bony arm in menace. Further on 
A belt of darkness seems to bar the way 
Long, low, and distant, where the Life to come 
Touches the Life that is. The Flood of Years 
Rolls toward it near and nearer. It must pass 
That dismal barrier. What is there beyond ? 
Hear what the wise and good have said. Beyond 
That belt of darkness, still the Years roll on 
More gently, but with not less mighty sweep. 
They gather up again and softly bear 
All the sweet lives that late were overwhelmed 
And lost to sight, all that in them was good, 
Noble, and truly great, and worthy of love — 
The lives of infants and ingenuous youths, 
Sages and saintly women who have made 
Their households happy ; all are raised and borne 



OUR FELLOW-WORSHIPPERS. 485 

By that great current in its onward sweep, 
Wandering and rippling with caressing waves 
Around green islands fragrant with the breath 
Of flowers that never wither. So they pass 
From stage to stage along the shining course 
Of that bright river, broadening like a sea. 
As its smooth eddies curl along their way 
They bring old friends together ; hands are clasped 
In joy unspeakable ; the mother's arms 
Again are folded round the child she loved 
And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now, 
Or but remembered to make sweet the hour 
That overpays them ; wounded hearts that bled 
Or broke are healed forever. In the room 
Of this grief-shadowed present, there shall be 
A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw 
The heart, and never shall a tender tie 
Be broken ; in whose reign the eternal Change 
That waits on growth and action shall proceed 
With everlasting Concord hand in hand. 



OUR FELLOW-WORSHIPPERS. 

Think not that tnou and I 
Are here the only worshippers to-day, 

Beneath this glorious sky, 
'Mid the soft airs that o'er the meadows play 

These airs, whose breathing stirs 
The fresh grass, are our fellow-worshippers. 



486 LATER POEMS. 

See, as they pass, they swing, 
The censers of a thousand flowers that bend 

O'er the young herbs of spring, 
And the sweet odors like a prayer ascend, 

While, passing thence, the breeze 
Wakes the grave anthem of the forest-trees. 

It is as when, of yore, 
The Hebrew poet called the mountain-steeps, 

The forests, and the shore 
Of ocean, and the mighty mid-sea deeps, 

And stormy wind, to raise 
A universal symphony of praise. 

For, lo ! the hills around, 
Gay in their early green, give silent thanks ; 

And, with a joyous sound, 
The streamlet's huddling waters kiss their banks, 

And, from its sunny nooks, 
To heaven, with grateful smiles, the valley looks. 

The blossomed apple-tree, 
Among its flowery tufts, on every spray, 

Offers the wandering bee 
A fragrant chapel for his matin-lay ; 

And a soft bass is heard 
From the quick pinions of the humming-bird. 

Haply — for who can tell ? — 
Aerial beings, from the world unseen, 

Haunting the sunny dell, 
Or slowly floating o'er the flowery green, 

May join our worship here, 
With harmonies too fine for mortal ear. 



NOTES. 



NOTES 



Page 3. 

POEM OF THE AGES. 

In this poem, written and first printed in the year 1821, the author has endeavored, from a survey 
of the past ages of the world, and of the successive advances of mankind in knowledge, virtue, and* 
happiness, to justify and confirm the hopes of the philanthropist for the future destinie's of the 
human race. 

Page 43. 

THE BURIAL-PLACE. 

The first half of this fragment may seem to the reader borrowed from the essay on Rural 
Funerals in the fourth number of " The Sketch-Book." The lines were, however, written more 
than a year before that number appeared. The poem, unfinished as it is, would hardly have been 
admitted into this collection, had not the author been unwilling to lose what had the honor of 
resembling so beautiful a composition. 

Page 58. 

THE MASSACRE AT SCIO. 

This poem, written about the time of the horrible butchery of the Sciotes by the Turks, in 1824, 
has been more fortunate than most poetical predictions. The independence of the Greek nation 
which it foretold, has come to pass, and the massacre, by inspiring a deeper detestation of their 
oppressors, did much to promote that event. 

Page 60. 
Her maiden veil, her own black hair, etc. 
" The unmarried females have a modest falling down of the hair over the eyes." — Eliot. 



49Q NOTES. 



Page 89. 

MONUMENT MOUNTAIN. 

The mountain called by this name, is a remarkable precipice in Great Barrington, overlooking 
the rich and picturesque valley of the Housatonic, in the western part of Massachusetts. At the 
southern extremity is, or was a few years since, a conical pile of small stones, erected, according to 
the tradition of the surrounding country, by the Indians, in memory of a woman of the Stockbridge 
tribe who killed herself by leaping from the edge of the precipice. Until within a few years past, 
small parties of that tribe used to arrive from their settlement in the western part of the State of 
New York, on visits to Stockbridge, the place of their nativity and former residence. A young 
woman belonging to one of these parties related, to a friend of the author, the story on which the 
poem of Monument Mountain is founded. An Indian girl had formed an attachment for her cousin, 
which, according to the customs of the tribe, was unlawful. She was, in consequence, seized with a 
deep melancholy, and resolved to destroy herself. In company with a female friend, she repaired 
to the mountain, decked out for the occasion in all her ornaments, and, after passing the day on the 
summit in singing with her companion the traditional songs of her nation, she threw herself head- 
long from the rock, and was killed. 

Page 102. 

THE MURDERED TRAVELLER. 

Some years since, in the month of May, the remains of a human body, partly devoured by wild 
animals, were found in a woody ravine, near a solitary road passing between the mountains west of 
the village of Stockbridge. It was supposed that the person came to his death by violence, but no 
traces could be discovered of his murderers. It was only recollected that one evening, in the course 
of the previous winter, a traveller had stopped at an inn in the village of West Stockbridge ; that 
he had inquired the way to Stockbridge ; and that, in paying the innkeeper for something he had 
ordered, it appeared that he had a considerable sum of money in his possession. Two ill-looking 
men were present, and went out about the same time that the traveller proceeded on his journey. 
During the winter also, two men of shabby appearance, but plentifully supplied with money, had 
lingered for a while about the village of Stockbridge. Several years afterward, a criminal, about to 
be executed for a capital offence in Canada, confessed that he had been concerned in murdering a 
traveller in Stockbridge for the sake of his money. Nothing was ever discovered respecting the 
name or residence of the person murdered. 

Page 144. 

Chained in the market-place he stood, etc. 

The story of the African chief, related in this ballad, may be found in the African Repository 
for April, 1825. The subject of it was a warrior of majestic stature, the brother of Yarradee, king of 
the Solima nation. He had been taken in battle, and was brought in chains for sale to the Rio Pon- 
gas, where he was exhibited in the market-place, his ankles still adorned with the massy rings of 



NOTES. 491 

gold which he wore when captured. The refusal of his captors to listen to his offers of ransom drove 
him mad, and he died a maniac. 

Page 156. 

THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS. 

This conjunction was said in the common calendars to have taken place on the 2d of August, 
1826. This, I believe, was an error, but the apparent approach of the planets was sufficiently near 
for poetical purposes. 

Page 164. 

THE HURRICANE. 

This poem is nearly a translation from one by Jose Maria de Heredia, a native of the island of 
Cuba, who published at New York, about the year 1825, a volume of poems in the Spanish language. 

Page 167. 

WILLIAM TELL. 

Neither this, nor any of the other sonnets in the collection, with the exception of the one from 
the Portuguese, is framed according to the legitimate Italian model, which, in the author's opinion, 
possesses no peculiar beauty for an ear accustomed only to the metrical forms of our own language. 
The sonnets in this collection are rather poems in fourteen lines than sonnets. 

Page 168. 

The slim papaya ripens, etc. 

Papaya — papaw, custard-apple. Flint, in his excellent work on the " Geography and History 
of the Western States," thus describes this tree and its fruit : 

"A papaw-shrub hanging full of fruits, of a size and weight so disproportioned to the stem, 
and from under long and rich-looking leaves, of the same yellow with the ripened fruit, and of an 
African luxuriance of growth, is to us one of the richest spectacles that we have ever contemplated 
in the array of the woods. The fruit contains from two to six seeds like those of the tamarind, ex- 
cept that they are double the size. The pulp of the fruit resembles egg-custard in consistence and 
appearance. It has the same creamy feeling in the mouth, and unites the taste of eggs, cream, 
sugar, and spice. It is a natural custard, too luscious for the relish of most people." 

Chateaubriand, in his " Travels," speaks disparagingly of the fruit of the papaw; but on the au- 
thority of Mr. Flint, who must know more of the matter, I have ventured to make my Western 
lover enumerate it among the delicacies of the wilderness. 

Page 184. 

The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye. 

The prairies of the West, with an undulating surface, rolling prairies, as they are called, pre- 
sent to the unaccustomed eye a singular spectacle when the shadows of the clouds are passing rap- 
idly over them. The face of the ground seems to fluctuate and toss like billows of the sea. 



492 NOTES. 



Page 184. 

The prairie-hawk that, poised on high. 
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not. 

I have seen the prairie-hawk balancing himself in the air for hours together, apparently over the 
same spot ; probably watching his prey. 

Page 186. 

These ample fields 
Nourished their harvests. 

The size and extent of the mounds in the valley of the Mississippi indicate the existence, at a 
remote period, of a nation at once populous and laborious, and therefore probably subsisting by agri- 
culture. 

Page 187. 

The rude conquerors 
Seated the captive with their chiefs. 

Instances are not wanting of generosity like this among the North American Indians toward a 
captive or survivor of a hostile tribe on which the greatest cruelties had been exercised. 



Page 189. 

song of Marion's men. 

The exploits of General Francis Marion, the famous partisan warrior of South Carolina, form an 
interesting chapter in the annals of the American Revolution. The British troops were so har- 
assed by the irregular and successful warfare which he kept up at the head of a few daring follow- 
ers, that they sent an officer to remonstrate with him for not coming into the open field and fighting 
" like a gentleman and a Christian." 

Page 199. 

MARY MAGDALEN. 

Several learned divines, with much appearance of reason, in particular Dr. Lardner, have main- 
tained that the common notion respecting the dissolute life of Mary Magdalen is erroneous, and that 
she was always a person of excellent character. Charles Taylor, the editor of " Calmet's Diction- 
ary of the Bible," takes the same view of the subject. 

The verses of the Spanish poet here translated refer to the " woman who had been a sinner," 
mentioned in the seventh chapter of St. Luke's Gospel, and who is commonly confounded with Mary 
Magdalen. 



NOTES. 493 



Page 201. 

FATI.MA AND RADUAN. 

This and the following poems belong to that class of ancient Spanish ballads, by unknown au- 
thors, called Romances Moriscos — Moriscan Romances or ballads. The}'- were composed in the four- 
teenth century, some of them, probably, by the Moors, who then lived intermingled with the Chris- 
tians : and they relate the loves and achievements of the knights of Granada. 

Page 203. 

LOVE AND FOLLY. — (FROM LA FONTAINE.) 

This is rather an imitation than a translation of the poem of the graceful French fabulist. 

Page 207. 
These eyes shall not recall thee, etc. 

This is the very expression of the original — No te llamardn mis oj'os, etc. The Spanish poets 
early adopted the practice of calling a lady by the name of the most expressive feature of her coun- 
tenance, her eyes. The lover styled his mistress " ojos bellos," beautiful eyes; u ojos serenos," 
serene eyes. Green eyes seem to have been anciently thought a great beauty in Spain, and there is 
a very pretty ballad by an absent lover, in which he addressed his lady by the title of " green 
eyes ; " supplicating that he may remain in her remembrance : 

" j Ay ojuelos verdes ! 
Ay los mis ojuelos ! 
Ay, hagan los cielos 
Que de mi te acuerdes ! " 

Page 210. 

Say, Love— for didst thou see her tears, etc. 

The stanza beginning with this line stands thus in the original : 

" Dilo tu, amor, si lo viste ; 

j Mas ay ! que de lastimado 
Diste otro nudo a la venda, 
Para no ver lo que ha pasado." 

I am sorry to find so poor a conceit deforming so spirited a composition as this old ballad, but I 
have preserved it in the version. It is one of those extravagances which afterward became so com- 
mon in Spanish poetry, when Gongora introduced the estilo culto, as it was called. 

Page 211. 

LOVE IN THE AGE OF CHIVALRY. 

This personification of the passion of Love, by Peyre Vidal, has been referred to as a proof of 
how little the Provencal poets were indebted to the authors of Greece and Rome for the imagery of 
their poems. 



494 NOTES. 

Page 212. 

THE LOVE OF GOD. — (FROM THE PROVENCAL OF BERNARD RASCAS.) 

The original of these lines is thus given by John of Nostradamus, in his " Lives of the Trouba- 
dours," in a barbarous Frenchified orthography : 

" Touta kausa mortala una fes perira, 
Fors que l'amour de Dieu, que tousiours durara. 
Tous nostres cors vendran essuchs, come fa l'eska, 
Lous Aubres leyssaran lour verdour tendra e fresca, 
Lous Ausselets del bosc perdran lour kant subtyeu, 
E non s'auzira plus lou Rossignol gentyeu. 
Lous Buols al Pastourgage, e las blankas fedettas 
Sent' ran lous agulhons de las mortals Sagettas, 
Lous crestas d' Aries fiers, Renards, e Loups espars 
Kabrols, Cervys, Chamous, Senglars de toutes pars, 
Lous Ours hardys e forts, seran poudra, e Arena. 
Lou Daulphin en la Mar, lou Ton, e la Balena, 
Monstres impetuous, Ryaumes, e Comtas, 
Lous Princes, e lous Reys, seran per mort domtas. 
E nota ben eysso kascun : la Terra granda, 
(Ou l'Escritura ment) lou fermament que branda, 
Prendra autra figura. Enfin tout perira, 
Fors que 1' Amour de Dieu, que touiours durara." 

Page 212. 

FROM THE SPANISH OF PEDRO DE CASTRO Y ANAYA. 

Las Auroras de Diana, in which the original of these lines is contained, is, notwithstanding it 
was praised by Lope de Vega, one of the worst of the old Spanish Romances, being a tissue of rid- 
dles and affectations, with now and then a little poem of considerable beauty. 

Page 231. 



The author began this poem in rhyme. The following is the first draught of it as far as he pro- 
ceeded, in a stanza which he found it convenient to abandon : 

A midnight black with clouds is on the sky ; 

A shadow like the first original night 
Folds in, and seems to press me as I lie ; 

No image meets the vainly wandering sight, 
And shot through rolling mists no starlight gleam 
Glances on glassy pool or rippling stream. 

No rudd}^ blaze, from dwellings bright within, 

Tinges the flowering summits of the grass ; 
No sound of life is heard, no village din, 

Wings rustling overhead or steps that pass, 
While, on the breast of earth at random thrown, 
I listen to her mighty voice alone. 



NOTES. 495 

A voice of many tones : deep murmurs sent 

From waters that in darkness glide away, 
From woods unseen by sweeping breezes bent, 

From rocky chasms where darkness dwells all day, 
And hollows of the invisible hills around, 
Blent in one ceaseless, melancholy sound. 

Earth ! dost thou, too, sorrow for the past ? 
Mourn'st thou thy childhood's unreturning hours, 

Thy springs, that briefly bloomed and faded fast, 

The gentle generations of thy flowers, 
Thy forests of the elder time, decayed 
And gone with all the tribes that loved their shade ? 

Mourn'st thou that first fair time so early lost, 

The golden age that lives in poets' strains, 
Ere hail or lightning, whirlwind, flood, or frost, 

Scathed thy green breast, or earthquakes whelmed thy plains, 
Ere blood upon the shuddering ground was spilt, 
Or night was haunted by disease and guilt ? 

Or haply dost thou grieve for those who die ? 

For living things that trod a while thy face, 
The love of thee and heaven, and now they lie 

Mixed with the shapeless dust the wild winds chase ? 
I, too, must grieve, for never on thy sphere 
Shall those bright forms and faces reappear. 

Ha ! with a deeper and more thrilling tone, 

Rises that voice around me: 'tis the cry 
Of Earth for guilt and wrong, the eternal moan 

Sent to the listening and long-suffering sky ; 

1 hear and tremble, and my heart grows faint, 
As midst the night goes up that great complaint. 

Page 249. 

Where Isar 's clay-white rivulets run 
Through the dark woods, like frighted deer. 

Close to the city of Munich, in Bavaria, lies the spacious and beautiful pleasure-ground, called 
the English Garden, in which these lines were written, originally projected and laid out by our 
countryman, Count Rumford, under the auspices of one of the sovereigns of the country. Winding 
walks, of great extent, pass through close thickets and groves interspersed with lawns ; and streams, 
diverted from the river Isar, traverse the grounds swiftly in various directions, the water of which , 
stained with the clay of the soil it has corroded in its descent from the upper country, is frequently 
of a turbid-white color. 

Page 255. 
THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS. 

This song refers to the expedition of the Vermonters, commanded by Ethan Allen, by whom the 
British fort of Ticonderoga, on Lake Champlain, was surprised and taken, in May, 1775. 



496 NOTES. 



Page 257. 

THE CHILD'S FUNERAL. 

The incident on which this poem is founded was related to the author while in Europe, in a letter 
from an English lady. A child died in the south of Italy, and when they went to bury it they found 
it revived and playing with the flowers which, after the manner of that country, had been brought 
to grace his funeral. 

Page 264. 

' Tis said when Schiller's death drew nigh, 

The "wish possessed his mighty mind, 
To wander forth wherever lie 

The homes and haunts of human kind. 

Shortly before the death of Schiller, he was seized with a strong desire to travel in foreign coun- 
tries, as if his spirit had a presentiment of its approaching enlargement, and already longed to 
expatiate in a wider and more varied sphere of existence. 

Page 266. 

The flower 
Of sanguinaria, from whose brittle stem 
The red drops fell like blood. 

The Sanguinaria Canadensis, or blood-root, as it is commonly called, bears a delicate white 
flower of a musky scent, the stem of which breaks easily, and distils a juice of a bright-red color. 

Page 275. 

The shad-bush, white with flowers, 
Brightened the glens. 

The small tree, named by the botanists, Aronia botyrapium, is called, in some parts of our 
country, the shad-bush, from the circumstance that it flowers about the time that the shad ascend 
the rivers in early spring. Its delicate sprays, covered with white blossoms before the trees are yet 
in leaf, have a singularly beautiful appearance in the woods. • ' 

Page 276. 

" There hast thou" said my friend, " a fitting type 
Of human life." 

I remember hearihg an aged man, in the country, compare the slow movement of time in early 
life and its swift flight as it approaches old age, to the drumming of a partridge or ruffled grouse in 
the woods— the strokes falling slow and distinct at first, and following each other more and more 
rapidly, till they end at last in a whirring sound. 

V 



NOTES. 497 



Page 279. 

AN EVENING REVERY.— FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. 

This poem and that entitled " The Fountain," with one or two others in blank verse, were in- 
tended by the author as portions of a larger poem, in which they may hereafter take their place. 

Page 282. 

The fresh savannas of the Sangamon 
Here rise in gentle swells, and the long grass 
Is mixed with rustling hazels. Scarlet tufts 
Are glowing in the green, like flakes of fire. 

The Painted Cup, Euchroma coccinea, or Bartsia coccinea, grows in great abundance in the 
hazel prairies of the Western States, where its scarlet tufts make a brilliant appearance in the midst 
of the verdure. The Sangamon is a beautiful river, tributary to the Illinois, bordered with rich 
prairies. 

Page 294. 

The longwave rolling from the southern pole 
To break upon Japan. 

" Breaks the longwave that at the pole began."— Tennent's Anster Fair. 

Page 295. 

At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee 
A nd worshipped. 

" Evening and morning, and at noon, will I pray and cry aloud, and he shall hear my voice."— 
Psalm lv. 17. 

Page 300. 

THE WHITE-FOOTED-DEER. 

" During the stay of Long's Expedition at Engineer Cantonment, three specimens of a variety 
of the common deer were brought in, having all the feet white near the hoofs, and extending to 
those on the hind-feet from a little above the spurious hoofs. This white extremity was divided, 
upon the sides of the foot, by the general color of the leg, which extends down near to the hoofs, 
leaving a white triangle in front, of which the point was elevated rather higher than the spurious 
hoofs."— Godman's Natural History, vol. ii., p. 314. 

Page 339. 

THE LOST BIRD. 

Readers who are acquainted with the Spanish language may not be displeased at seeing the 
original of this little poem : 
32 



49^ NOTES. 



EL PAJARO PERDIDO. 

Huyo con vuelo incierto, 

Y de mis ojos ha desparecido. 
Mirad, si, a vuestro huerto, 

Mi pajaro querido, 

Ninas hermosas, por acaso ha huido. 

Sus ojos relucientes 

Son como los del aguila orgullosa : 
Plumas resplandecientes, 

En la cabeza airosa, 

Lleva : y su voz es tierna y armoniosa. 

Mirad, si cuidadoso 

Junto a las flores se escondio en la grama. 
Ese laurel frondoso 

Mirad, rama por rama, 

Que el los laureles y los flores ama. 

Si le hallais, por ventura, 

No os enamore su amoroso acento ; 
No os prende su hermosura ; 

Volvedmele al momento ; 

O dejadle, si no, libre en el viento. 

Por que su pico de oro 

Solo en mi mano toma la semilla ; 
Y nc» enjugare el lloro 

Que veis en mi mejilla, 

Hasta encontrar mi profugo avecilla. 

Mi vista se oscurece, 

Si sus ojos no ve, que son mi dia 
Mi anima desfallece 

Con la melancolia 

De no escucharle ya su melodia. 

The literature of Spain at the present day has this peculiarity, that female writers have, in con- 
siderable number, entered into competition with the other sex. One of the most remarkable of 
these, as a writer of both prose and poetry, is Carolina Coronado de Perry, the author of the little 
poem here given. The poetical literature of Spain has felt the influence of the female mind in the 
infusion of a certain delicacy and tenderness, and the more frequent choice of subjects which interest 
the domestic affections. Concerning the verses of the lady already mentioned, Don Juan Eugenio 
Hartzenbusch, one of the most accomplished Spanish critics of the present day, and himself a suc- 
cessful dramatic writer, says : 

" If Carolina Coronado had, through modesty, sent her productions from Estremadura to Madrid 
under the name of a person of the other sex, it would still have been difficult for intelligent readers 
to persuade themselves that they were written by a man, or at least, considering their graceful 
sweetness, purity of tone, simplicity of conception, brevity of development, and delicate and par- 
ticular choice of subject, we should be constrained to attribute them to one yet in his early youth, 



NOTES. 499 



whom the imagination would represent as ingenuous, innocent, and gay, who had scarce ever wan- 
dered beyond the flowery grove or pleasant valley where his cradle was rocked, and where he has 
been lulled to sleep by the sweetest songs of Francisca de la Torre, Garcilaso, and Melendez." 

The author of the Pajaro Perdido, according to a memoir of her by Angel Fernandez de los 
Rios, was born at Almendralejo, in Estremadura, in 1823. At the age of nine years she began to 
steal from sleep, after a day passed in various lessons, and in domestic occupations, several hours 
every night to read the poets of her country, and other books belonging to the library of the house- 
hold, among which are mentioned, as a proof of her vehement love of reading, the " Critical His- 
tory of Spain," by the Abbe Masuden, " and other works equally dry and prolix." She was after- 
ward sent to Badajoz, where she received the best education which the state of the country, then on 
fire with a civil war, would admit. Here the intensity of her application to her studies caused a 
severe malady, which has frequently recurred in after-life. At the age of thirteen years she wrote a 
poem entitled La Palma, which the author of her biography declares to be worthy of Herrera, and 
which led Espronceda, a poet of Estremadura, a man of genius, and the author of several transla- 
tions from Byron, whom he resembled both in mental and personal characteristics, to address her a 
eulogistic sonnet. In 1843, when she was but twenty years old, a volume of her poems was published 
at Madrid, in which were included both that entitled La Palma and the one I have given in this 
note. To this volume Hartzenbusch, in his admiration for her genius, prefaced an introduction. 

The task of writing verses in Spanish is not difficult Rhymes are readily found, and the lan- 
guage is easily moulded into metrical forms. Those who have distinguished themselves in this lit- 
erature have generally made their first essays in verse. What is remarkable enough, the men who 
afterward figure in political life mostly begin their career as the authors of madrigals. A poem in- 
troduces the future statesman to the public, as a speech at a popular meeting introduces the candi- 
date for political distinction in this country. I have heard of but one of the eminent Spanish poli- 
ticians of the present time, who made a boast that he was innocent of poetry, and, if all that his 
enemies say of him be true, it would have been well both for his country and his own fame if he 
had been equally innocent of corrupt practices. The compositions of Carolina Coronado, even her 
earliest, do not deserve to be classed with the productions of which I have spoken, and which are 
simply the effect of inclination and facility. They possess the mens divinior. 

In 1852 a collection of the poems of Carolina Coronado was brought out at Madrid, including 
those which were first published. The subjects are of larger variety than those which prompted 
her earlier productions ; some of them are of a religious cast, others refer to political matters. One 
of them, which appears among the " Improvisations," is an energetic protest against erecting a new 
amphitheatre for bull-fights. The spirit of all her poetry is humane and friendly to the best inter- 
ests of mankind. 

Her writings in prose must not be overlooked. Among them is a novel entitled Sigca, founded 
on the adventures of Camoens ; another entitled Jarilla^ a beautiful story, full of pictures of rural 
life in Estremadura, which deserves, if it could find a competent translator, to be transferred to our 
language. Besides these there are two other novels from her pen, Paquita and La Luzdel Tejo. A 
few years since appeared, in a Madrid periodical, the Semanarz'o, a series of letters written by her, 
giving an account of the impressions received in a journey from the Tagus to the Rhine, including a 
visit to England. Among the subjects on which she has written, is the idea, still warmly cherished 



500 



NOTES. 



in Spain, of uniting the entire peninsula undej - one government. In an ably-conducted journal of 
Madrid, she has given accounts of the poetesses of Spain, her contemporaries, with extracts from 
their writings, and a kindly estimate of their respective merits. 

Her biographer speaks of her activity and efficiency in charitable enterprises, her interest in the 
cause of education, her visits to the primary schools of Madrid, encouraging and rewarding the 
pupils, and her patronage of the cscuela de parvulos, or infant school at Badajoz, established by a 
society in that city, with the design of improving the education of the laboring-class. 

It must have been not long after the publication of her poems, in 1852, that Carolina Coronado be- 
came the wife of an American gentleman, Mr. Horatio J. Perry, at one time our Secretary of Lega- 
tion at the Court of Madrid, afterward our Charged' Affaires, and now, in 1863, again Secretary of 
Legation. Amid the duties of a wife and mother, which she fulfils with exemplary fidelity and 
grace, she has not either forgotten or forsaken the literary pursuits which have given her so high a 
reputation. 

Page 37X. 

THE RUINS OF ITALICA. 

The poems of the Spanish author, Francisco de Rioja r who lived in the first half of the seven- 
teenth century, are few in number, but much esteemed. His ode on " The Ruins of Italica" is one 
of the most admired of these, but in the only collection of his poems which I have seen it is said that 
the concluding stanza, in the original copy, was deemed so little worthy of the rest that it was pur- 
posely omitted in the publication. Italica was a city founded by the Romans in the south of Spain, 
the remains of which are still an. object of interest. 

Page 385. 

SELLA. 

Sella is the name given by the Vulgate to one of the wives of Lamech, mentioned in the fourth 
chapter of the Book of Genesis, and called Zillah in the common English version of the Bible. 

Page 402. 

HOMER*S ODYSSEY, BOOK V., TRANSLATED. 

It may be esteemed presumptuous in the author of this volume to attempt a translation of any 
part of Homer in blank verse after that of Cowper. It has always seemed to him, however, that'Cow- 
per's version had very great defects. The style of Homer is simple, and he has been praised for 
fire and rapidity of narrative. Does anybody find these qualities in Cowper's Homer ? If Cowper had 
rendered him into such English as he employed in his " Task," there would be no reason to com- 
plain ; but in translating Homer he seems to have thought it necessary to use a different style from 
that of his original works. Almost every sentence is stiffened by some clumsy inversion ; stately 
phrases are used when simpler ones were at hand, and would have rendered the meaning of the 
original better. The entire version has the appearance of being hammered out with great labor, 
and as a whole it is cold and constrained ; scarce any thing seems spontaneous ; it is only now and 



NOTES. 



501 



then that the translator has caught the fervor of his author. Homer, of course, wrote in idiomatic 
Greek, and, in order to produce either a true copy of the original, or an agreeable poem, should 
have been translated into idiomatic English. 

I am almost ashamed, after this censure of an author, whom, in the main, I admire as much as I 
do Cowper, to refer to my own translation of the Fifth Book of the Odyssey. I desire barely to 
say that I have endeavored to give the verses of the old Greek poet at least a simpler presentation 
in English, and one more conformable to the genius of our language. 

Page 443. 

The mock-grape's blood-red banner, etc. 

A mpelopis, mock-grape. I have here literally translated the botanical name of the Virginia 
creeper — an appellation too cumbrous for verse. 

Page 450. 

A BRIGHTER DAY. 

This poem was written shortly after the author's return from a visit to Spain, and more than a 
twelvemonth before the overthrow of the tyrannical government of Queen Isabella and the expul- 
sion of the Bourbons. It is not " from the Spanish " in the ordinary sense of the phrase, but is an 
attempt to put into a poetic form sentiments and hopes which the author frequently heard, during 
his visit to Spain, from the lips of the natives. We are yet to see whether these expectations of an 
enlightened government and national liberty are to become a reality under the new order of things. 



THE END. 



LBMr 7 i2 



